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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
MRS.  S.  WESTRAY  BATTLE 

PRESENTED 

BY  HER  DAUGHTER 

MRS.  ROBERT  S.  PICKENS 

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Tar  Heel  Tales 


By 

H.   E.    C.   Bryant 
^^Red  Buck'' 


Stone  ^  Barringer  Co. 

Charlotte,  N,  C. 
igio 


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Copyright,  1909, 
By  stone  &  BARRINGER  CO. 


TO 

JOSEPH  PEARSON  CALDWELL 

MOST  OF  THESE  STORIES  YOU  HAVE  SEEN, 
SOME  YOU  HAVE  PRAISED.  WHILE  OTHERS, 
NEWLY  WRIT,  YOU  HAVE  NOT  BEEN  ABLE 
TO  SEE  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  YOUR  UNFORTU- 
NATE ILLNESS,   BUT,  TO  YOU,  THE    PrINCE 

OF  Tar  Heels,  I  dedicate  all,  in  lov- 
ing REMEMBRANCE  OF  FIFTEEN  YEARS 
OF  INTIMATE  ACQUAINTANCE,  FAITHFUL 
FRIENDSHIP,  AND  MOST  DELIGHTFUL  COM- 
PANIONSHIP. 


PREFACE 

These  tales,  concerning  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  people,  were  written  by  H.  E.  C. 
Bryant,  better  known  as  Red  Buck.  As  staff 
correspondent  of  The  Charlotte  Observer, 
Mr.  Bryant  visited  every  comer  of  North 
Carolina,  and  in  his  travels  over  the  state 
wrote  many  stories  of  human  interest,  de- 
picting life  and  character  as  he  found  It. 
His  first  impulse  to  publish  his  stories  in 
book  form  resulted  from  an  appreciation  of 
his  work  by  the  lamented  Harry  Myrover, 
a  very  scholarly  writer  of  Fayetteville,  who 
said: 

*'  I  have  been  struck  frequently  at  how 
the  predominant  mental  characteristic  sticks 
out  in  Mr.  Bryant.  His  sense  of  humor  is 
as  keen  as  a  razor.  He  sees  a  farce  while 
other  men  are  looking  at  a  funeral,  and  this 
exquisite  sense  of  humor  Is  liable  to  break 
out  at  any  time  —  even  in  church.     One  may 


Preface 

read  after  him  seriously,  as  he  reports  the 
proceedings  of  a  big  event  but  toward  the 
last  the  whole  thing  Is  likely  to  burst  out  In 
an  Irrepressible  guffaw,  at  some  very  quaint, 
funny  reflection  or  criticism,  or  an  Inadver- 
slon.  All  this  shows  out,  too,  from  the  per- 
sonal side  of  the  man,  making  him  dellghjt- 
ful  In  talk,  and  altogether  one  of  the  most 
entertaining  fellows  one  will  meet  In  many 
a  day's  journey. 

*'  I  really  think  there  Is  more  Individuality 
about  his  writings,  than  about  those  of  any 
other  writer  of  the  state.  Every  page  spar- 
kles and  bubbles  with  the  humor  of  the  man, 
and  It  Is  a  clean,  wholesome  humor,  there 
being  nothing  In  It  to  wound,  but  everything 
to  cheer  and  please." 

These  words  honestly  spoken  by  Mr. 
Myrover  encouraged  Mr.  Bryant.  Red 
Buck's  dialect  stories  soon  obtained  a  state 
wide  reputation,  and  as  Mr.  J.  P.  Caldwell, 
the  gifted  editor  of  The  Charlotte  Observer, 
truly  said:  *' His  negro  dialect  stories  are 
equal  to  those  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris  — 
Uncle  Remus." 


Preface 

His  friends  will  be  delighted  to  know  that 
he  has  collected  some  of  the  best  of  his 
stones,  and  that  they  are  presented  here. 

In  North  Carolina  there  is  no  better  known 
man  than  Red  Buck.  A  letter  addressed  to 
"  Red  Buck,  North  Carolina,"  would  be  de- 
livered to  H.  E.  C.  Bryant,  at  Charlotte. 
Everybody  in  the  state  knows  the  big  hearted, 
auburn  haired  Scotch-Irishman  of  the  Meck- 
lenburg colony,  who,  on  leaving  college  went 
to  work  on  The  Charlotte  Observer  and,  on 
account  of  his  cardinal  locks,  rosy  complexion 
and  gay  and  game  way,  was  dubbed  "  Red 
Buck  "  by  the  editor,  Mr.  Caldwell.  It  was 
an  office  name  for  a  time.  Then  it  became 
state  property,  and  the  name  "  Bryant "  per- 
ished. 

Red  Buck  has  traveled  all  over  the  state 
of  North  Carolina  and  written  human  inter- 
est stories  from  every  sand-hill  and  mountain 
cove.  Many  Tar  Heels  know  him  by  no 
other  name  than  Red  Buck.  In  fact  there 
is  a  Red  Buck  fad  in  the  state,  which  has 
resulted  in  a  Red  Buck  brand  of  whiskey,  a 
Red  Buck  cigar,  a  Red  Buck  mule,  a  Red 


Preface 

Buck  pig,  and  a  Red  Buck  rooster,  although 
the  man  for  whom  they  are  named  drinks 
not,  neither  does  he  smoke. 

This  book  of  Tar  Heel  tales  is  from  Mr. 
Bryant's  cleverest  work. 

Thomas  J.  Pence. 

Washington  Press  Gallery. 
December,  1909. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
Uncle  Bens  Last  Fox  Race I 

Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule 1 1 

The  Spaniel  and  the  Cops  .      .      .      ,      .      '      ZZ 

A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock 43 

Minerva — The  Owl 58 

Uncle  Derrick  in  Washington 68 

And  the  Signs  Failed  Not 79 

The  Irishman  s  Game  Cock 97 

Strange  Vision  of  Arabella 112 

A  Negro  and  His  Friend 125 

Faithful  Unto  Death 142 

"  Red  Buck  '':  Where  I  Came  By  It     ,      .      .153 

Until  Death  Do  Us  Part 168 

Uncle  George  and  the  Englishman  ....    181 

She  Didnt  Like  my  Yellow  Shoes  .      .      .      .191 

Afraid  of  the  Frowsy  Blonde 199 

Jan  Pier — The  Shoeshine 206 

William  and  Appendicitis 214 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

ISline  Little  Tar  Heels        .      .      .        Frontispiece 

Uncle  Ben I 

Aunt  Matt il 

Tite,  Riding  a  Democratic  Ox       ....  27 

Marse  Lawrence  and  Trouble         ....  43 

Uncle  Derrick  at  Home 68 

Preparing  for  the  Guest 79 

Arabella  the  Day  After 1 12 

Jim  in  a  Peaceful  Mood 1 25 

William 214 


Uncle  Ben. 


TAR  HEEL  TALES 

UNCLE  BEN'S  LAST  FOX  RACE 

CCT^  /f'E  an'  Marsc  Jeems  Is  all  uv  de  ole 

iVl  stock  dat's  lef,"  said  Uncle  Ben, 
an  ex-slave  of  the  Morrow  family,  of  Provi- 
dence township. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Lizzie,  she's  dald,  an'  ole 
Marster,  he's  gone  to  jine  her.  It's  des  me 
an'  Marse  Jeems,  an'  he's  in  furrin  parts. 
He  sole  de  ole  farm,  all  cep'n'  dis  here  little 
spot  dat  he  lef  fur  me  an'  Ellen.  An'  Ellen, 
she's  dald  an'  de  ole  nigger's  by  hissef. 

"  Dey  ain't  no  foks  lak  dem  here  now. 
De  times  is  done  changed.  Me  an'  Marse 
Wash  wuz  de  big  uns  here  when  he  wuz 
livin*.  All  dis  Ian'  an'  dese  farms  belonged 
to  him.  But  Marse  Jeems  he's  done  come  to 
be  er  fine  doctor,  an'  stays  in  New  York. 

*'  Evybudy's  gone  an'  lef  me. 

"  De  horses  an'  de  houns,  too,  dey're  all 
gone. 

"  I  guess  I  ain't  here  fur  long,  but  I  sho' 

I 


2  Tar  Heel  Tales 

wouF  lak  to  see  ole  Marster,  an^  Miss  Lizzie, 
an'  Sam,  an'  Cindy,  an'  Mollie,  de  bosses,  an' 
Joe,  Jerry,  Loud,  Dinah,  Sing,  an'  Hannah, 
de  dogs." 

The  old  darkey  was  on  his  death  bed.  He 
spoke  in  a  weak  but  charming  voice.  His 
mind  was  wandering,  returning  to  the  past. 
He  had  been  his  old  master's  hunting  com- 
panion, his  whipper-in,  and  their  black  and 
tan  hounds  were  famous  for  speed,  casting 
ahead  at  a  loss  and  hard  driving.  They 
could  catch  a  red  fox  or  make  him  take  to 
the  earth. 

Old  Ben  was  a  hunter  from  his  heart. 
He  loved  the  running  dog,  the  fast  horse  and 
the  chase.  The  pleasant  days  of  years  long 
since  passed  were  coming  back  to  him.  He 
longed  for  one  more  run  with  the  old  Mor- 
row hounds.  Those  who  watched  by  the 
death  bed  in  the  little  cabin,  waiting  for  the 
final  summons,  listened  to  Ben's  stories  of 
the  past.  Dr.  Smith  had  telegraphed  for 
Dr.  James  Morrow,  the  last  of  his  family, 
and  told  him  that  the  old  man  wanted  to  see 


Uncle  Ben's  Last  Fox  Race  3 

him  and  say  good-bye.  Loyal  to  the  last  the 
young  master  was  hurrying  from  the  North 
to  the  old  home  place  to  be  present  when  the 
faithful  servant  departed  this  life.  He  had 
asked  Dr.  Smith  to  make  the  last  hours  as 
comfortable  as  possible  and  to  gratify  Uncle 
Ben's  every  wish. 

It  was  almost  midnight  that  October  day; 
the  moon  was  shining  gloriously,  the  ground 
damp  from  recent  rain  and  the  weather 
fine  for  a  fox  hunt.  The  scenting  conditions 
were  well-nigh  perfect.  Dr.  Morrow  had 
just  arrived,  but  old  Ben  did  not  know  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Marse  Wash,  all's  ready  fur  de 
hunt,''  said  the  negro  In  his  delirium. 

"  Ever  thing's  right  an'  ole  Hannah's  been 
clawin'  at  my  do'  fur  de  las'  hour.  She's 
mighty  anxious  to  try  dat  ole  Stinson  fiel'  fox 
dis  evnin'.  De  horses  Is  done  saddled  an' 
nothin'  to  do  but  start. 

"  Des  listen  at  Sing  an'  Jerry,  dey's  powful 
anxious  to  go !  " 

It  was  pathetic  to  hear  the  old  fellow  talk- 
ing to  his  master  who  had  been  dead  many 
years,  but  he  seemed  happy.     There  was  no 


4  Tar  Heel  Tales 

way  to  stop  him  If  those  there  should  have 
desired  to  do  so. 

"  Blow  yo'  horn,  boss,  an'  let  Marse  Sam 
Stitt  jine  us  ef  he  will.  Dat'll  do,  I  hear  'im. 
He's  comin'." 

For  a  time  Uncle  Ben  was  quiet.  His 
lips  worked  and  he  seemed  to  be  talking  to 
himself.  But,  after  a  long  silence,  he  lifted 
his  head  from  the  pillow  and  exclaimed: 
"Listen!  Listen,  Marse  Wash!  Hear  dat 
bark?  Dat's  ole  Sly,  Marse  Sam's  Georgy 
dog.  She's  done  slip  in  dere  an'  strike  er 
head  uv  ole  Hannah  I 

"Listen!  Hear  her  callln'?  Marse  Wash, 
dat  Sly  looks  lak  er  steppin'  dog  an'  she  sho' 
is  gwlne  to  give  Joe  some  hard  runnin'  dis 
mornin'  ef  we  jump  dat  Stinson   fox. 

"  Listen,  listen,  listen,  Marse  Wash,  I  hear 
our  dogs  puttin'  in!  Dere's  ole  Sing,  ole 
Loud  and  Joe.  It's  time  fur  dat  fox  to  walk 
erway  now,  ole  Joe  ain't  in  no  foolln'  way 
to-night.  He  sho'  Is  ready  to  run.  Listen, 
Marse  Wash,  you  hear  him  callln'." 

Uncle  Ben  dropped  back  on  the  pillow,  and 
rested   a    few   minutes.     Everybody   In    the 


Uncle  Ben's  Last  Fox  Race  J. 

room  was  silent.  It  seemed  only  an  hour  or 
so.  The  old  man  had  run  his  race  and  his 
time  had  come. 

"Hear  dat,  Marse  Wash?  Listen  how 
dat  Georgy  lady's  slngin'  in  dere.  She  an' 
ole  Joe's  neck  to  neck.  Deyer  comin'  down 
thu  de  Hartls  woods  now  an'  'tain't  gwine  to 
be  long  till  dey  make  dat  fox  run.  Ef  it's 
de  ole  Stinson  fox  dey'll  'roust  him  in  de  Rea 
pastur'.  Dat's  whay  he's  feedin'  dis  time  er 
night. 

"  Dat's  it !  Listen,  you  hear  ole  Loud 
crossin'  dat  hill?  He's  scoutin'  now.  De 
fus'  thing  you  know  he'll  be  right  behint  dat 
rascal.  He  ain't  sayin'  much,  but  he's  movin' 
on. 

"  Dat's  Joe  fallin'  In,  an'  Jerry,  an' 
Dinah! 

"  Deyer  all  crossin'  to  de  pastur.  Dat's 
whay  ole  Stinson  Fiel'  do  his  eatin'  'bout  dis 
time.  Well,  ef  he's  in  dere  to-night  you'll 
hear  dem  dogs  cry  out  lak  dey  wuz  mad 
derectly." 

At  irregular  Intervals  the  old  darkey  would 
stop   and  catch   his  breath.     There   was  a 


6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

smile  upon  his  face  and  spirit  in  his  voice. 
Death  came  on  and  he  was  having  his  last 
fox  chase.  The  old  Morrow  hounds  trailed 
the  famous  Stinson  Field  fox  and  were  about 
to  make  a  jump.  Capt.  Sam  Stitt's  dogs 
were  putting  in  and  the  quality  of  a  new 
hound  would  be  tested.  The  contest  prom- 
ised to  be  exciting. 

"  Hear  dat  Sly,  wid  dat  chop,  chop  bark, 
an*  er  sort  uv  er  squeal!  She's  right  wid 
ole  Joe. 

"  Listen,  Marse  Wash,  ole  Loud's  done 
driv  him  out! 

"  Des  listen  how  he's  shoutin' ! 

"  Dey's  gone  toads  de  Big  Rock  an'  dey 
sho'  is  flyin'.  Ef  it's  "de  ole  fiel'  feller  he'll 
drap  erroun'  by  de  Cunnigin  place  des  to  let 
'em  know  dat  he's  up  an'  doin'  an  den  he'll 
come  back  dis  way. 

"  Whoopee,  but  ain't  dey  movin' !  Listen 
at  ole  Joe  wid  his  '  yowl '  holler.  He's  des 
kickin'  dust  in  de  faces  uv  de  res'  uv  dem 
dogs. 

'*  Yes,  sir,  he's  gone  right  square  to  dat 


Uncle  Ben's  Last  Fox  Race  7 

Cunnigin  place.  It's  ole  Stinson  an'  he's 
walkln'  erbout. 

"  I  des  kin  hear  'em.  Dey's  sucklin'  'roun 
de  ole  house  now." 

There  was  a  break  In  the  story.  Uncle 
Ben  stopped  to  rest.  The  dogs  had  gone  out 
of  his  hearing. 

"  Listen,  Marse  Wash,  dey're  comin'  back! 
Ole  Joe's  runnin'  lak  he's  skeered.  Some 
dog  mus'  be  crowdin'  him?  Yes,  sir,  It's  de 
Stinson  fox,  an'  he's  comln'  dis  way.  See, 
comin'  over  de  hill?  Dat's  him !  Look  how 
he's  lopin'I  He  knows  dat  ole  Joe  ain't 
arter  no  foolin'  dis  night. 

"See,  yonder's  de  dogs!  Dey're  travlln' 
arter  him.  Look  at  dat  pale  red  houn'! 
Dat's  Sly,  an'  she's  steppin'  lak  de  groun' 
wuz  hot!  She  ain't  givin'  ole  Joe  time  to 
open  his  mouf  wide.  I  knowed  some  dog 
wuz  pushin'  him. 

"Here  dey  come  down  to  de  branch! 
Ain't  dey  movin'?  Dey're  goin'  to  de  Har- 
tls  woods,  an'  on  toads  Providence  church. 
But  ain't  dey  flyin'  ?     I  dis  kin  hear  dem  I  " 


8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

As  the  dogs  went  out  of  hearing  toward 
the  east  the  old  hunter  lay  back  and  hushed 
his  tongue.  He  was  running  the  race  that 
he  had  run  many  times  before. 

"  Listen,  Marse  Wash,  I  hear  'em  crossin' 
de  Providence  road,  comin'  back.  Dey're 
drivin'  to  kill  ole  Stinson  now.  I  'clar'  fo' 
de  Lawd  I  never  heered  dat  Joe  run  lak  he's 
runnin'  dis  night.     He's   almos'   flyin'. 

"  But  hush,  listen,  don't  you  hear  dat 
'  Whoo-ark,  whoo-ark,  whoo-ark '  in  dere? 
Dat's  Sly,  an'  she  sho'  is  shovin'  dat  fox  an' 
crowdin'  Joe. 

"Hear  dat?  She's  crossin'  de  big  hill 
fust. 

"  Dey're  tumin' !  He's  makin'  fur  de  Big 
Rock,  but  he  ain't  gut  time  to  make  it. 

"  Listen,  Marse  Wash,  dat  Georgy  dog's 
'bout  to  outdo  ole  Joe !  She's  comin'  lak  de 
wind.  I  don't  hear  ole  Joe.  He  won't  bark 
ef  he  gits  behind.  He  mus'  be  tryin'  to  head 
off  dat  Sly  bitch. 

"  Look!  Yon  dey  go  'cross  de  cotton  fiel' 
an'  Joe  an'  Sly  is  side  to  side. 


Uncle  Ben's  Last  Fox  Race  9 

"  Whoopee,  ain't  dey  goin'  ?  Ole  Joe  sho' 
is  doin'  about,  but  Sly's  on  his  heels. 

"  Dey's  goin'  to  ketch  dat  fox.  Git  up 
Sam  an'  less  see  'em  kill  him !  Go  on  I 
Come  on,  Marse  Wash!  " 

For  the  first  time  during  the  night  the 
old  darkey  became  very  much  excited  and 
jumped  and  surged  in  the  bed.  Those  near 
tried  to  calm  him.  But  the  race  was  almost 
over.  Uncle  Ben's  summons  had  come.  The 
angel  of  death  was  at  the  door. 

*'  Look,  Marse  Wash,  ole  Joe's  In  de  lead. 
He  sees  dat  fox  an'  he's  done  lef  Sly.  He's 
runnln'  fur  blood. 

"See  him!  Look!  Look!  Ole  Stinson 
Fiel's  'bout  to  git  to  de  thicket!  See,  he 
can't  make  it !  Joe's  grabbin'  at  him !  Look ! 
Look!" 

That  was  all.  Uncle  Ben  was  giving  up 
the  ghost.  Death  came  on  him.  The  final 
summons  had  arrived.  As  old  Joe  bore 
down  the  fox  the  faithful  servant  of  the  Mor- 
row family  passed  away.  As  the  end  drew 
nigh  Dr.  Morrow  and  Dr.  Smith  and  other 


lo  Tar  Heel  Tales 

friends  who  had  assembled  around  the  bed 
stood  near  and  watched  the  light  go  out. 
Everything  around  was  still.  Death  was 
easy. 

The  remains  were  buried  in  the  Morrow 
family's  private  burial  grounds.  Ben  was 
the  last  of  the  old  slave  stock.  In  his  de- 
lirium he  had  called  back  his  old  master,  the 
old  horses  and  the  old  hounds,  and  died  hap- 
py in  the  delusion. 


Aunt  Matt. 


FORTY  ACRES  AND  A  MULE 


<CTT  THAT  about  your  husband  and  the 
VV  '  forty  acres  and  the  mule,'  Aunt 
Matt?"  asked  the  ruddy-faced  young  man 
who  had  just  arrived  from  the  city  to  visit 
his  father  and  mother  at  the  old  home  place 
on  the  farm. 

"  It's  fine  weather,  Mister  Eddie,  an'  de 
cotton  an'  de  corn  is  des  growin'  a  Inch  or 
two  ever'  night,"  said  Matt  Tite,  a  tall,  thin- 
faced  negress  of  the  ante-bellum  type,  smil- 
ing. 

"  Don't  evade  the  question,  Matt ;  tell  these 
boys  about  Tite  and  the  carpet-baggers,"  In- 
sisted the  visitor.  "  Out  with  it,  I  want  to 
hear  the  story  again." 

"  Chile,  ain't  you  never  gwine  to  fergit 
dat?  I  walked  eight  miles  to  git  here  to  see 
you,  but  ef  I'd  er  knowed  dat  you  wuz  gwine 
to  pester  me  'bout  Tite  an'  de  Ku  Kluxes  I 
sho'  wouldn't  a  come. 

II 


12  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Vs  done  fergit  de  pertlclers  uv  dat  story." 

"  You  know  enough  to  make  it  interesting; 
tell  it." 

"  Titers  done  fergit  de  forty  acres  an'  de 
mule,  an'  ef  I  des  wanter  have  er  fight,  let  me 
mention  it  In  his  presence. 

"  You  know  TIte  wuz  one  uv  Marse  John 
Robinson's  niggers  'fo'  s'render.  Marse 
John  wuz  a  powerful  big  man  In  dem  times 
ef  he  is  po'  now.  He  had  lots  uv  Ian'  an' 
niggers,  an'  wuz  mighty  good  to  his  slaves. 
Tite  wuz  a  good  nigger,  an'  Marse  John 
laked  him,  an'  arter  de  war  he  stay  on  at  de 
ole  place  an'  seem  satisfied  till  dem  cearpet- 
baggers  (dat's  what  de  white  folks  called 
dem)  fust  come  sneakin'  around,  puttin'  de 
devil  in  de  niggers'  hald,  promlsin'  all  kinds 
uv  things,  an'  given  dem  nuthin'  but  trou- 
ble. 

"  'Twuz  soon  arter  s'render  when  me  an' 
Tite  married.  I  had  b'longed  to  Marse 
Jeems  Walkup,  an'  a  mighty  good  man,  too, 
he  wuz.  When  I  marry  Tite  I  move  to  de 
Robinson  place  to  live  wid  him,  an'  we  all  git 
'long  fine  fur  a  while.     Tite  he  wucked  'bout 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  13 

de  farm  an'  I  hep  'roun'  de  Big  House.  Ole 
Miss  Jane  done  say  dat  she  been  wantin'  me 
fur  de  longes'  sort  uv  time. 

"  One  night,  when  me  an'  Tite  start  'way 
fum  de  kitchen,  I  seed  a  rabbit  cross  de  road 
in  front  uv  us,  an'  I  'low  right  den  dere  wuz 
bad  luck  ahead  fur  him  an'  me.  Ole  Missus 
uster  say  ef  a  rabbit  cross  yo'  path  somefin' 
bad  woul'  sho'  happen  to  you. 

"  Sho'  nuff,  chile,  hit  done  come.  Bad 
times  'gin  on  dat  plantation  an'  'roun'  dat 
neighborhood  dat  very  night.  When  me  an' 
Tite  git  home  dar  come  'long  a  strange  white 
man,  lookin'  lak  er  peddler,  totin'  a  police 
on  his  arm.  Comin'  nigh  he  say  to  me  an' 
Tite,  ^  Howdy-do,  Miss  Robinson  an'  Mr. 
Robinson?' 

"  I  look  'roun'  to  see  ef  Ole  Marses  an'' 
Missus  wuz  dere,  fur  I  knowed  we  wuz  no 
*  Miss  Robinson  '  an'  *  Mr.  Robinson.'  But, 
bless  yo'  sole,  honey,  he  wuz  talkin'  to  nobudy 
but  me  an'  Tite.  I  look  at  de  man  spicious 
lak  right  den,  an'  kinder  git  skeered.  He 
'gin  to  talk  'bout  sellin'  us  some  specs  an' 
julery,  an'  sich  lak,  but  soon  he  tell  Tite  dat 


14  Tar  Heel  Tales 

he's  sont  dere  fum  de  Norf  to  talk  'bout  de 
comin'  'lection.  He  'low  dat  he's  been  heer- 
in'  'bout  TIte,  an'  tell  him  dat  he's  one  of  de 
big  niggers  uv  de  country  ef  he  des  only 
knowed  it.  Tite  he  say  nuthin'  but  de  white 
man  des  keep  on  an'  on. 

"  *  Yes,'  'low  de  man,  *  dey  tells  me  dat 
you's  one  uv  de  mos'  prominent  cul'ud  gen- 
tlemens  in  dis  section  uv  de  country.  I  knows 
dat's  so  fur  you  looks  smarter  dan  de  res'  I's 
seed  down  here ! ' 

"  I  seed  Tite  swell  up  a  little  when  de  man 
tell  him  dat.  Niggers'  haids  des  lak  white 
folks',  dey  gits  mighty  big  sometime. 

"  *  Well,  Mr.  Robinson,  dere's  a  better  day 
comin'  fur  you  an'  Miss  Robinson,'  'clared  de 
white  man. 

"  *  I's  des  film  de  Norf,  an'  come  to  fetch 
you  good  tidens.  By  dis  time  of  coase  you 
knows  who  yo'  frien's  is.  You  had  slav'ry; 
you's  gut  freedum.  Dat's  not  all,  ef  de  'Pub- 
likins  gits  in  dis  time  you's  gwine  to  have 
some  uv  dis  Ian'.  Yes,  you's  gwine  to  have 
forty  acres  uv  Ian'  an'  a  mule  to  wuck  it  wid. 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  15 

You,  TIte  Robinson,  Is  to  have  de  pic'  uv  de 
lot  fur  you's  gut  so  much  sense.' 

"  Dat  man  sho'  did  have  a  sharp  tongue, 
an'  knowed  how  to  please  a  nigger.  Tite's 
eyes  git  mighty  big  while  he  talk  'bout  de  Ian' 
an'  de  mule.  But  all  de  time  I  wuz  lookin' 
at  dat  man  an'  de  way  he  dress.  He  look 
lak  a  bad  man.  Me  an'  TIte  wuz  not  use  to 
calls  fum  white  men.  No  spectable  white 
person  prowled  'bout  'mong  de  niggers  look- 
In'  dat  way.  But  't'wuz  none  uv  my  bizness 
to  meddle  wid  him  an'  TIte.  So  I  says  nuth- 
In'  an'  he  goes  on  wid  his  putty  talk. 

"  After  while  he  say  to  TIte :  *  Come  in- 
side an'  make  a  light;  I's  gut  some  pitchers 
to  show  you  an'  Miss  Robinson.' 

"  Dat  wuz  mos'  too  much  fur  me,  but  I 
^darsen'  cheep.  TIte  he  goes  In  an'  lights  de 
torch  an'  de  man  he  opens  up  his  police  an' 
takes  out  some  pitchers.  De  fust  ones  had 
niggers  wid  chains  on,  an'  de  overseer  wid  his 
whup.  Indeed,  sir,  dem  pitchers  had  de  po' 
darkey  in  a  bad  place.  De  man  say  dat's 
de  way  It  wuz  in  slav'ry  time.     Den  he  fotch 


1 6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

out  some  wid  Mr.  Nigger  dressed  up  In  fine 
clothes,  wid  yaller  buttons,  dis  what  de  nig- 
ger laks.  Bless  me,  ef  he  didn't  have  one 
wid  Tite  on  a  big  chestnut  boss,  ridin'  'roun' 
de  farm.  It  look  so  much  lak  de  nigger  dat 
I  des  laugh  out  loud.  An'  Tite  he  grin  all 
over  de  face. 

*' '  Dat's  de  way  Tite's  gwine  to  look  after 
de  'lection,'  said  de  man.  '  Dat's  ef  de  'Pub- 
likins  git  In.' 

*'  Chile,  dat  wuz  a  powful  talkin'  man.  His 
tongue  go  dis  lak  it  wuz  loose  at  both  een's. 
When  he  shet  up  his  police,  after  givin'  Tite 
some  pitchers  to  put  on  de  mantel  boa'd,  he 
take  de  breff  fum  me  by  axin'  ef  he  kin  stay 
all  night.  Tite  wuz  so  stuck  on  him  dat  he 
say  '  all  right.'  So  he  stay,  but  slip  out  'fo' 
day  nex'  mornin'. 

"  Dat  talk  an'  dem  pitchers  stir  Tite  all  up. 
He's  not  de  same  nigger  no  mo'.  De  nex' 
day  he  wuz  mean  to  me,  *  cause  he  seed  fum 
de  color  In  my  eye  dat  I  lak  no  sich  doln's, 
an'  he  had  some  words  wid  Marse  John. 
'Deed,  sir,  he  wuz  des  lak  er  stubborn  mule. 
Nobudy  coul'  do  nuthin'  wid  him.     I  tole  him 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  17 

dat  he'd  better  quit  foolin'  wid  po'  white 
trash,  fur  you  git  nuthin'  in  dis  worl'  'cepin' 
whut  you  wuck  fur.  But  Tite  he  wuz  done 
gone  'stracted  on  de  forty  acres  an'  de  mule. 
He  des  look  at  hissef  on  dat  big  boss  an' 
smile." 

"  Matt,  do  you  really  think  Tite  believed 
he  would  get  the  land  and  mule?" 

"  Coase  he  did!  "  declared  the  old  woman 
with  considerable  spirit. 

**  De  same  white  man  meet  Tite  an'  talk 
agin,  but  dat  time  I  wuz  away  an'  hear  nuth- 
in'  uv  It.  Tite  soon  'gin  to  talk  'bout  callin' 
a  meetin'  uv  de  niggers.  Mo'  strange  nig- 
gers dan  I  ever  seed  befo'  come  dere  to 
talk  wid  him,  an'  dey  all  act  mighty  bigity 
lak. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Tite  wuz  de  big  nigger  in  dem 
parts.  Whatever  he  said  de  'tuther  niggers 
done.  De  'lection  come  nigher  an'  Tite  gits 
mo'  triflin'  'bout  wuckin'  fur  de  white  folks. 
Him  an'  Marse  John  had  a  dispute  an'  Marsc 
John  knock  him  down  wid  a  stick.  Talkin' 
woul'  do  no  good.  De  crowds  uv  niggers 
kep'  gittin'  bigger  an'  bigger  an'  mo'  strange 


1 8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

white  mens  come  to  see  Tite,  an'  dey  all'ers 
sneak  In  at  night. 

"  De  white  folks  lak  Marse  John  and 
Marse  Jeems  Walkup  'gin  to  git  tired  uv  all 
dis  foolishness.  Dey  hold  a  meetin'  dem- 
selves,  at  Marse  John's,  an'  'scuss  how  to 
keep  de  cearpet-baggers  off  uv  deyer  farms  an' 
git  de  niggers  back  to  wuck. 

"  But,  Lawd  bless  yo'  soul,  honey,  'bout 
dIs  time  TIte  cut  de  highes'  buck  uv  all  an' 
have  Marse  John  'rested  an'  carried  to  town 
fur  hittin'  him.  Yes,  sir,  a  man  wid  blue  suit 
an'  brass  buttons  come  an'  git  Marse  John 
an'  take  him  to  Charlotte  'fo'  dat  Freedman's 
Bureau.  You  orter  heerd  de  niggers  an' 
white  foks  cryin',  an'  seen  'em  takin'  on  when 
de  officer  driv'  off  wid  Marse  John.  Ole 
Missus  took  It  mighty  hard,  so  she  did,  an'  I 
wuz  des  as  mad  es  I  coul'  be.  I  knowed  dat 
de  devil  wuz  to  pay  den,  fur  de  white  foks 
wuzn't  gwlne  to  put  up  wid  no  sich  es  dat. 
Deyer  day  wuz  comin'  agin." 

"Did  they  put  Grandpa  in  jail?"  asked 
one  of  the  excited  children. 

"  No,  honey,  but  dey  mos'  done  it.    Marse 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  19 

John  come  back  de  very  nex'  day,  but  he 
wuzn't  de  same  man.  He  done  gut  mad  an' 
all  de  res'  uv  de  white  foks  wid  him.  'Deed, 
sir,  dey  wuz  tired  foolin'  wid  dem  cearpet- 
baggers,  an'  Marse  John  make  Tite  git  out 
uv  his  house  de  fust  thing  when  he  come 
back,  an'  to  tell  de  truf  I  didn't  blame  him 
one  bit,  fur  dat  nigger  wuz  des  so  mean  dat 
nobudy  coul'  git  on  wid  him.  Ole  Miss  Jane 
wuz  pow'ful  sorry  fur  me  but  I  had  to  go  wid 
Tite.  We  rented  a  house  fum  a  town  man, 
an'  move  in.  We  wuz  back  fum  de  road  an' 
'way  fum  de  white  foks.  I  never  seed  sich 
a  nigger  es  Tite;  every  day  he  wuz  wusser 
dan  de  day  befo'.  Fum  'soclatin'  wid  dem 
cearpet-baggers  he  gut  high  up.  Dey  done 
fill  his  ole  kinky  haid  wid  highferlutin'  talk 
an'  idees.  Every  udder  night  he  wuz  at  some 
nigger  mefetin',  stayin'  till  'fo'  day  in  de  mom- 
in'.  You  woul'  never  know  when  an'  where 
dey  wuz  gwine  to  meet  but  dere  wuz  all'ers 
lots  uv  'em  dere.  Sometimes  dey'd  meet  at 
my  house  an'  it  woul'n't  hold  'em  all.  De 
way  dem  niggers  talk  when  dey  meet  I  des 
knowed  somefin'  bad  wuz  boun'  to  happen. 


20  Tar  Heel  Tales 

**  Now  an'  den,  when  Tite  wuz  off  polltl- 
cin\  I  woul'  slip  off  an'  go  see  Miss  Jane,  an* 
hear  whut  de  white  peoples  wuz  doin'.  Den  I 
beg  Tite  to  let  politicin'  'lone  an'  stay  at 
home,  but,  no,  sir,  he  knowed  his  bizness. 
His  haid  wuz  sot  on  dat  forty  acres  an'  de 
mule,  an'  I  coul'n't  do  nuthin'  wid  him. 

"  One  day  Miss  Jane  read  fum  de  paper 
whut  de  Ku  Kluxes  wuz  doin'  to  niggers  down 
in  Souf  Careliny.  You  know  where  'tis :  des 
over  de  line  down  here  'bout  three  mile? 
De  piece  say  dat  dey  wuz  comin'  dis  way. 
She  'low  dat  de  doin's  uv  mean  niggers  wuz 
gwine  to  fetch  'em  here. 

"  An'  let  me  tell  you,  chilluns,  it  wuzn't 
long  'fo'  dey  come  an' 'putty  nigh  skeered  de 
niggers  to  deaf. 

"  But,  'fo'  dey  come  Tite  done  run  plum 
mad  on  de  subjec'  uv  de  'lection.  I  beg  him 
to  stop  dat  foolin'  an'  go  back  to  wuck,  but 
he  des  go  on  lak  he  never  heerd  me.  Why, 
honey,  de  fool  nigger  done  'gin  to  think  he's 
gwine  to  be  Gov'ner.  De  wust  ain't  come 
yit,  fur  one  day  a  white  man  come  'long  an' 
giv'  Tite  what  he  say  wuz  a  deed  fur  Marse 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  21 

John's  mill  place.  Es  he  giv'  de  paper  to 
Tite  he  say:  '  Mr.  Robinson  (talkin'  to  no- 
budy  but  TIte),  here's  de  deed  to  de  mill 
place  an'  you  kin  have  It  surveyed  as  soon  as 
you  laks,  fur  de  'lection  Is  mos'  here  an' 
'twon't  be  long  'fo'  you  kin  git  dem  forty 
acres  an'  de  mule.' 

"  Tite,  he  take  It  an'  hide  It  under  a  rock. 
I  seed  him  lookin'  at  It,  des  lak  he  coul'  read, 
when  he  know  he  don't  know  B  fum  bull- 
foot.  One  day,  while  Tite  wuz  In  Charlotte, 
I  slip  de  deed  out  fum  under  de  log  where 
he  hid  It,  an'  took  it  over  to  Miss  Jane  an' 
she  say  It  read  lak  dis:  *  Es  Samson,  lifted 
de  serpent  out  uv  de  wilderness  so  I  lifted 
dis  po'  nigger  out  uv  $5.' 

*'  Tite  done  giv'  de  man  $5  fur  drawin'  de 
deed,  an'  he  sho'  did  think  It  wuz  er  deed  fur 
de  mill  place,  an',  'cordin'ly,  he  an'  another 
nigger  sneak  down  one  day,  while  Ole  Mars- 
ter  wuz  in  Souf  Careliny,  an'  lay  off  whut 
he  want  an'  put  up  rocks  to  mark  de  corners. 
Soon  after  de  'lection  Tite  an'  de  yudder  nig- 
gers uv  de  Robinson  settlement  wuz  to  go  to 
town  an'  git  de  mules  an',  bein'  as  Tite  wuz 


22  Tar  Heel  Tales 

a  leader,  he  wuz  gwine  to  have  a  fine  hoss  to 
boot.  De  cearpet-baggers  done  tell  dem  dat 
dey  woul'  have  several  thousan'  mules  fur  de 
niggers  in  de  county.  'Fo'  dat,  one  night, 
Tite  done  come  in  wid  a  long  coat  wid  shiny 
buttons,  an'  a  stovepipe  hat.  You  orter  seed 
dat  nigger  how  he  swell  'roun'  'fo'  me,  but 
de  mo'  he  git  fur  nuthing  de  mo'  trouble  I 
seed  fur  him.  I  'spect'd  trouble  every  day. 
It  des  look  to  me  lak  de  worl'  wuz  comin'  to 
de  een.  All  de  time  Miss  Jane  kep'  tellin' 
me  'bout  de  Kluxes  comin'  nigher.  An', 
bless  yo'  soul,  honey,  one  mornin'  all  de  nig- 
gers 'long  de  big  road  wuz  stirred  up  'bout  cr 
percession  dey  had  seed  de  night  befo'.  Dey 
say  dat  de  bigges'  men  dey  ever  see  come 
'long  ridin'  camels  lak  dey  have  in  de  show. 
Whutever  it  wuz  didn't  make  no  fuss  but 
move  easy  des  lak  a  cat  after  er  rat.  De 
mens  coul'  stretch  deyer  necks  way  up  in  de 
trees,  an'  drink  a  whole  bucket  uv  water  at  a 
time. 

"  'Fo'  de  day  passed  we  heerd  'bout  de 
same  crowd  goin'  to  ole  Joe  Grier's  home 
an'  takin'  him  out  an'  beatin'  his  back  wid 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  23 

a  buggy  trace.  Yes,  sir,  dey  say  It  wuz  a 
shame  de  way  dey  do  dat  nigger,  but  he'd 
been  medlln'  des  lak  TIte.  Dey  kotch  him 
makin'  a  speech  at  one  uv  dem  nigger  meetings 
an'  dey  bus'  his  high  hat  (one  lak  TIte's)  all 
to  flinders.  An'  dey  say  when  dey  lef  derc 
dat  ole  TIte  Robinson  wuz  de  nex'  nigger 
dey  woul'  git.  When  TIte  hear'  dat  he  git 
sorter  shaky,  but  'low,  big  lak,  dat  dey  wuz 
foolln'  wid  de  wrong  nigger.  He  make  out 
lak  he's  gwine  to  fite. 

"  Dat  very  night  TIte  wuz  gwlne  to  have 
a  big  meetin',  de  las'  'fo'  de  'lection,  at  Plnc- 
ville  chuch.  It  wuz  to  be  de  bigges'  uv  all 
but  when  de  niggers  hear  'bout  de  Ku  Kluxes 
dey  gut  skittish  'bout  gittin'  out  after  dark. 
TIte  an'  de  rest  uv  de  ringleaders  went  but 
dey  didn't  have  much  uv  a  crowd.  De  pews 
uv  de  chuch  wuzn't  full  lak  dey  had  been. 
Yes,  sir,  de  audience  wuz  rather  slim  fur  de 
'caslon.  But  TIte  wuz  dere  In  all  his  glory, 
an'  de  boss  dog  uv  de  yard.  Howsomever, 
when  he  lef  home  dat  night  he  wuz  sorter 
quiet  lak.  He  'peered  to  be  a  little  oneasy. 
I  wuz  monstrous  anxious   'bout  him   fur  I 


24  Xar  Heel  Tales 

knowed  de  Kluxes  wuz  In  de  Ian'.  I  didn't 
want  Tite  to  git  hurt  but  I  didn't  care  much  ef 
de  Kluxes  skeered  dem  fool  idees  out  uv  his 
haid,  so  he  coul'  have  some  sense  once  mo'." 

"  Did  they  get  him,  Aunt  Matt?  "  asked  a 
small  boy  who  had  become  thoroughly  inter- 
ested. 

"  Honey,  dat's  de  night  de  devil  broke 
loose,"  said  Matt.  "  I  des  felt  lak  somefin' 
wuz  gwine  to  drap,  an'  sho'  nuff  it  did. 

*'  Soon  after  Tite  lef  de  house  de  elements 
gut  wrong.  De  clouds  gather'd  thick  an' 
hang  mighty  low  in  de  Wes'.  I  coul'  hear 
de  thunderin'  an'  see  de  lightnin'.  I  never 
seed  sich  a  dark  night.  But,  after  de  bigges' 
rain  dat  I  ever  seed  fell,  de  clouds  'clare  'way 
an'  de  moon  come  out. 

"  When  Tite  wuz  gone  an'  de  rain  wuz 
over  I  went  to  sleep  an'  knowed  no  mo'  till  I 
heerd  peoples  talkin'  an'  cussin',  an'  it  soun' 
des  lak  dey  wuz  outside  my  do'.  It  wuz 
den  after  midnight,  I  spec'.  I  coul'  hear  de 
low  whisperin'  voices  on  fust  one  side  uv  de 
house,  den  de  tuther.  I  heerd  horses  movin' 
'bout,  an'  den  I  knowed  dat  It  wuz  de  Ku 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  IJ 

Kluxes.  I  heerd  one  man  say:  *  Well, 
we'll  go  In  here  an'  see  ef  de  black  rascaPs 
come  yit.  But  I  don't  see  how  he  coul'  uv 
haided  us  off.' 

"  'Bout  dat  time  dere  wuz  a  tap  on  de  do', 
an'  a  call,  '  Matt,  open  de  do'.  We  want  to 
see  If  TIte's  In  dere.  We  won't  hurt  you  ef 
you  let  us  In,  an'  ef  you  don't  we  are  comin' 
In  anyhow.     We'll  break  de  do'.' 

*'  I  wuz  wide  awake  but  say  nuthin'. 

"'Matt!  Matt!  Don't  you  hear? '  I 
coul'n't  tell  de  voice  but  I  knowed  ef  I  didn't 
open  de  do'  dey  woul'  break  It  down;  so  I 
open  It  an'  git  back  In  bed.  When  de  do' 
come  open  It  peered  to  me  lak  I  seed  a  whole 
lot  uv  bosses  In  de  road  an'  lots  uv  men  In 
de  yard,  dressed  In  red  shirts  an'  had  on  dese 
here  false  faces.  I  wuz  skeered  an'  den  I 
wuzn't,  fur  de  man  whut  do  de  talkin'  had  a 
mighty  fermllyer  lak  voice  to  me,  but  I  des 
coul'n't  say  who's  It  wuz.  Dey  peered  to 
b'lleve  me  when  I  told  'em  dat  TIte  wuzn't 
dere,  but  dey  searched  anyhow  to  make  sar- 
tln'. 

"  After  dey  can't  find  him  an'  dey  start  out 


26  Tar  Heel  Tales 

de  man  what  spoke  befo'  say :  *  Well,  Matt, 
we  give  de  ole  devil  a  good  run,  an'  would've 
swung  him  up  ef  we'd  ketched  him,  but  it's 
late  now  an'  we'd  better  go.' 

"  Den  I  say:  '  Please,  marster,  don't  kill 
him  fur  he's  des  gone  crazy  'bout  dis  here 
'lection  bizness  what  dem  strange  white  foks 
put  in  his  haid.  Don't,  boss  man,  fur  my 
sake,  kill  de  ole  nigger.  He'll  come  right. 
I's  tried  to  git  him  to  stay  at  home.  Now 
des  let  me  try  him  one  mo'  time.'  Ax  Marse 
John  Robinson  an'  Marse  Jeems  Walkup 
'bout  Matt.  Dey  knows  me.  I's  been  good 
since  s'render,  an'  I's  tried  to  make  Tite  be- 
have hissef.  So,  Mister,  won't  you  let  him 
off  dis  time? ' 

"  De  same  man  what  spoke  befo'  'low: 
*  Well,  boys,  I  b'lieve  dis  is  a  good  nigger, 
an'  on  her  'count  we'll  let  de  Parson  'lone  fur 
a  few  days  an'  see.  Ef  we  hear  uv  any  mo' 
uv  his  doin's,  'citin'  de  niggers  an'  makin' 
speeches,  we'll  do  him  des  lak  we  did  Ole 
Joe  Grier,  or  wuss.  Ef  he  hadn't  run  lak 
er  deer  t'night,  we'd  broke  his  neck.  Let's 
go  back  to  Souf  Careliny,  an'  res'.' 


Titej  riding  a  Democratic  Ox. 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  27 

"  Dis  said,  dey  rode  off.  I  wuz  skeered 
dat  TIte  wuz  daid,  an'  coul'n't  sleep  no  mo' 
dat  night,  but  wuz  too  bad  'frighten'  to  git 
up. 

*'  Way  in  de  mornin',  toge  day,  when 
all  gits  quiet,  I  heered  a  soft  knock  at  de  do'. 
I  knowed  it  mus'  be  Tite,  so  I  gits  up  an' 
opens  it,  an'  sho'  nuff  it  wuz  him. 

"  Honey,  you  woul'n't  knowed  dat  nigger. 
He  wuz  wet  an'  muddy  fum  de  bottom  uv  his 
feets  up.  He  wuz  bare  haided  an'  his  clothes 
all  tore.  But,  bless  yo'  soul,  chile,  he  wuz 
glad  to  git  home.  When  I  open  de  do'  he 
say,  *  Let  me  in,  ole  'oman,  fur  I's  mos'  daid. 
De  Ku  Kluxes  is  been  runnin'  me  all  night. 
Don't  make  no  fuss,  but  lem'me  in.' 

"  Skeered  as  I  wuz  when  I  seed  him  I  had 
to  laugh.  He  look'  des  lak  a  frizzly  chicken 
wid  de  feathers  turned  de  wrong  way,  an' 
wuz  des  tremblin'  lak  a  leaf.  Ever  time  I 
move  my  foot  he  jump  lak  he  wuz  hit,  but 
when  I  tell  him  what  de  Kluxes  say  to  me  he 
'clare,  '  Thank  Gawd,  Matt,  ef  dat  be  so  I's 
yo'  nigger  so  long  as  I  live.  You  ain't  gwine 
to  kietch  me  foolin'  wid  po'  white  foks  an' 


28  iTar  Heel  Tales 

politics  no  mo'.  Dis  is  my  las'  time.  I's 
never  been  so  skeered  since  de  Lawd  made 
me.' 

"  Yes,  sir,  an'  dat  wuz  his  las'  meetin',  an' 
when  dem  cearpet-baggers  come  sneakin' 
'roun'^  at  night  he  made  me  drive  dem  way 
des  es  same  as  ef  dey  had  pizen.  He  went 
straight  to  wuck  an'  fum  dat  day  to  dis  he's 
been  quiet  on  politics. 

"  But  it  wuz  a  long  time  'fo'  I  knowed 
what  happened  at  de  chuch  dat  night.  Tite 
woul'n't  never  talk  'bout  It.  Miss  Jane 
heered  all  de  fac's  an'  tell  me. 

"  It  wuz  lak  dis.  You's  been  to  Pineville 
chuch  —  I  mean  de  col'ud  chuch  —  de  one 
dat  sets  on  de  big  hill.  At  de  time  when 
Tite  wuz  flyin'  so  high  no  white  pusson  lived 
close  to  de  chuch.  All  de  Ian'  'bout  dere 
wuz  in  woods.  De  chuch  is  gut  two  do's, 
one  in  de  side  an'  one  at  de  een  where  de 
pulpit  Is.  It  wuz  a  good  thing  fur  Tite  dat 
de  een  do'  wuz  dere.  Dat's  all  dat  saved 
his  life. 

"  Tite  an'  his  niggers  wuz  at  de  chuch  dat 
night  an'  had  de  meetin'  gwine  at  nine.     De 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  29 

onlies'  lamp  In  de  house  wuz  on  de  pulpit. 
TIte  wuz  de  fust  speaker  fur  de  'casslon.  He 
wuz  to  stir  up  de  niggers  fur  de  'lection  day. 
Dem  cearpet-baggers  done  told  him  what  to 
say. 

"  De  niggers  all  holler  fur  Parson  Robin- 
son an'  TIte  step  up  In  de  pulpit  an'  take  off 
his  stovepipe  hat,  set  It  on  de  table,  button 
up  his  long  coat,  an'  start  off  lak  dis : 
*  Gents  an'  Feller  Citizens:  Fs  come  here  to- 
night to  tell  you  dat  de  nigger's  'bout  to  git 
what  b'longs  to  'em.  De  white  foks  Is  been 
,  on  top  long  'nuff.  Ef  de  'Publlklns  wins  dIs 
time  ever  nigger  in  dis  house  is  gwlne  to  git 
forty  acres  uv  de  bes'  Ian'  In  dis  kermunity 
an'  a  mule  to  wuck  It  wid.' 

"  '  Fur  nuthin',  Mr.  Robinson  ?  '  'low'  Ole 
,  Tom  Moore. 

"*Yes,  Mr.  Moore,  fur  nuthin',  fur  It 
b'longs  to  'em.  Dat's  de  truf.  Fs  done 
gut  de  deed  fur  mine,  an'  all  Fs  gut  to  do  Is 
to  move  on  after  de  'lection,  an'  go  to  town 
an'  git  my  mule.' 

"  '  Dat's  de  truf,'  shouted  Ole  Bill  Davis, 
a  deekin  In  de  chuch. 


30  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  '  Tell  It  to  'em,  brother  I  Come  on  wid 
some  mo'  lak  dat  I ' 

"  *  Dat's  whut  we  wants  to  heer,'  said  dc 
crowd. 

"  TIte  went  on :  *  But  on  de  yudder  han', 
ef  de  Demmycrats  gits  back  in  power,  de  las' 
one  uv  you  will  go  bac'  in  slav'ry.  De  over- 
seer wid  his  whup  will  be  back.  Mark  whut 
I  say  fur  it's  de  truf ! ' 

"  '  We  know  it.  Parson,  tell  it  des  lak  it 
isl' 

"  But,  bless  yo'  soul,  honey,  dis  is  where 
de  speakin'  wuz  out.  While  Tite  wuz  soar- 
in'  high  'mong  de  clouds,  'bout  a  dozen  great 
big  mens,  wid  masses  on  deyer  faces,  an'  red 
shirts  on  deyer  bodies,  sprung  up  des  lak  fum 
de  yearth  an'  march  down  de  middle  aisle  uv 
de  chuch  an'  take  seats  on  de  long  bench  in 
front  uv  de  pulpit.  Nobudy  but  Tite  say 
nuthin',  an'  he  chatter  des  lak  he's  crazy. 
His  voice  trem'le  so  it  almos'  shake  de  house. 
At  fust  his  tongue  mos'  stop,  but  when  he 
seed  de  strange  men  cross  deyer  legs  an'  look 
up  at  him,  he  say  dat  he's  gut  nuthin'  'ginst 


Forty  Acres  and  a  Mule  31 

de  white  foks,  an'  he  seed  no  use  in  freedum 
nohow.' 

"  '  Dere  wuz  a  little  shufflin'  In  de  back  uv 
de  bulldin'.  It  wuz  Tom  Moore,  Bill  Davis 
an'  other  niggers  pilln'  out. 

"  'Bout  dis  time  come  de  straw  dat  broke 
de  camel's  bac'.  De  big  mens  uncross  deyer 
legs,  all  at  one  time,  an'  each  one  pull  out 
a  long  knife  an'  a  whit  rock  an  commence  to 
sharpen  de  blades,  des  lak  dey  wuz  fixin'  to 
kill  hogs.  De  shinin'  steel  dumbfounded 
TIte.  Big  draps  uv  sweat  come  out  on  his 
haid.  When  de  red  shirt  mens  see  how 
skeered  de  po'  nigger  Is  dey  soun'  deyer 
blades  on  de  rocks  an'  TIte  mos'  jump  out 
uv  his  skin.  He  fust  look  at  de  mens  an'  den 
at  de  bac'  do'.  His  tongue  done  stick  to  de 
roof  uv  his  mouf,  but  he  muster  up  courage 
to  say:  '  I  see  dat  you  darkies  didn't  fetch 
no  water  fur  me  to  drink.  I  can't  speak  wid- 
out  water,  so  I'll  des  git  a  little  at  de  well.' 

"  Dis  said,  TIte  dash  out  de  back  do'  wld- 
out  his  hat  an'  de  Ku  Kluxes  give  a  wild  In- 
jln  yell  an'  charge  out  de  side  do'. 


32  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  But,  chile,  you  can't  ketch  a  skeered  nig- 
ger, an'  it's  no  use  to  try.  'Fo'  de  Kluxes 
git  started  Tite  wuz  gone. 

"  Tite  never  did  git  de  forty  acres  an'  de 
mule.  Ef  he  did  I  never  seed  it,  an'  I's  been 
livin'  wid  him  ever  since." 

Later,  when  Grover  Cleveland  ran  for 
President,  Tite  rode  in  a  Democratic  pro- 
cession, mounted  on  an  ox,  and  wearing  a 
Cleveland  hat. 


THE  SPANIEL  AND  THE  COPS 

«^/^OME  here,  Judge,"  said  Col.  Tom 

V->i  Black,  the  big,  blonde  policeman,  of 
the  Charlotte  force,  as  a  black,  sleek,  shaggy 
water  spaniel  started  across  Independence 
Square.  "  You've  got  no  business  over  there; 
come  here." 

Officer  Will  Pitts,  who  was  by  Col.  Black's 
side  at  the  time,  volunteered:  "That  is  an 
affectionate  pair  —  Col.  Black  and  Judge  — 
they  like  each  other;  they  tramp  the  same 
beat  together  every  night  the  colonel  Is  on 
duty." 

"  That's  no  He,"  put  In  Col.  Black,  "  that 
dog  Is  as  regular  as  a  clock.  He  comes  to 
headquarters  just  before  twelve  and  patrols 
with  the  boys  till  they  go  off  In  the  morning. 
He  has  sense  like  a  man;  I  never  saw  such  an 
intelligent  animal. 

"  Look  at  that  large  head,  those  big,  bright 

33 


'34  Tar  Heel  Tales 

eyes  and  that  splendid  nose!  Judge's  no 
fool! 

"  He's  got  sense  enough  to  vote  for  mayor. 
That's  the  gospel  truth." 

Pitts  acquiesced  in  everything  the  colonel 
said,  and  moved  around  like  a  caged  animal 
while  Judge  was  being  discussed.  He  is  very 
fond  of  the  dog. 

Judge  is  a  Dr.  JekyI  and  Mr.  Hyde  dog. 
During  the  day,  when  all  honest  beings  go 
about  and  care  not  who  observes  them  and 
their  manners,  Judge  plays  the  part  of  Dr. 
Jekyll,  serving  as  a  watchdog  for  his  rightful 
master.  Dr.  George  W.  Graham,  and  enliven- 
ing the  premises  by  a  cheerful  bark  or  warn- 
ing growl.  All  friends  of  the  family  are  as 
welcome  to  the  place  as  the  gentle  south 
winds  of  summer,  but  an  enemy  is  driven  out. 

Who,  that  strolls  about  the  town,  viewing 
the  pretty  homes,  has  not  seen  Judge,  trotting 
about  the  Graham  yard,  at  the  corner  of  Sev- 
enth and  Church  streets,  switching  his  bushy 
tail  and  smiling  out  of  his  great  brownish 
mellow  eyes  at  all  attractive  persons  as  they 
pass? 


The  Spaniel  and  the  Cops  35 

That  is  his  best  side. 

But,  at  that  very  moment,  Judge  is  play- 
ing the  hypocrite,  just  as  well  as  a  deceitful 
man  would  do.  All  is  fair  and  bright,  and 
Judge  greets  you  with  a  hearty  shake  of  the 
tail,  beaming  face  and  dancing  eyes,  delighted 
to  please  one  and  all,  knowing  that  his  proud 
master  is  watching  him  through  the  window. 
If  his  behavior  is  excellent,  his  dinner  will  be 
something  out  of  the  ordinary;  a  rare  slice' 
of  beef,  or  a  bit  of  cake,  and  Pussy  will  not 
get  all  the  cream. 

Judge  comes  to  just  conclusions.  He  fools 
the  folks  at  home  seven  days  in  the  week, 
being  a  past  master  at  wool-pulling.  When 
Dr.  Graham  goes  home  at  night,  tired  and 
depressed  from  a  hard  day's  work,  Judge, 
tactful  dog  that  he  is,  rushes  out  to  meet  him. 

Such  capers  he  does  cut,  barking,  cutting 
somersaults,  and  jumping  around  like  wild; 
his  joy  unconfined.  Dr.  Graham  tarries  for 
a  few  minutes  to  play  with  him,  and  if  you 
chance  to  hear  the  racket,  you  think  that 
two  gay  school  children  have  taken  possession 
of  the  lawn.     If  Judge  has  an  axe  to  grind 


36  Tar  Heel  Tales 

—  an  extra  large  cavity  In  his  bread-basket, 
or  desires  to  slip  away  unnoticed  earlier  than 
usual  —  he  romps  all  the  harder,  and  barks 
more  boisterously.  He  Is  a  shrewd  politi- 
cian. His  love  for  Dr.  Graham  is  sincere, 
but  not  as  Intense  as  he  would  make  him  be- 
lieve. He  Is  not  unlike  the  girl  who  marries 
one  fellow  for  his  money  while  she  loves  an- 
other; Judge  prefers  Col.  Black,  Pitts,  Ser- 
geant Jetton  and  other  members  of  the  police 
force  to  his  home  people. 

For  five  years  he  has  spent  his  nights  with 
the  night  officers  of  the  city.  He  knows  the 
Ins  and  outs  of  the  police  department  better 
than  one  or  two  of  the  bllly-toters  that  pass 
for  policemen.  For  patrol  duty  he  Is  first- 
class.  He  can  run  with  the  flying  thief,  or 
jump  fences  with  the  light-footed  crap-shoot- 
er, and  Is  always  handy  and  willing.  If  a 
call  comes  for  Black  Maria,  Judge  Is  the  first 
to  mount  the  front  seat.  He  likes  an  excit- 
ing race  —  the  faster  the  better.  On  raids, 
he  Is  the  first  to  enter  the  house  and  the  last 
to  quit  it.  While  the  search  or  Investigation 
Is  being  made,  he  sits  quietly  by,  a  visiting  on- 


The  Spaniel  and  the  Cops  37 

looker,  interested  but  not  active.  If  the  of- 
ficers are  compelled  to  run  a  foot-race,  Judge 
takes  the  lead,  and  it  is  a  wiry  culprit  that  can 
out-distance  him.  The  prisoner  securely- 
fixed  in  the  wagon.  Judge  takes  his  seat  in 
front,  turns  his  back  to  the  horse,  and  faces 
the  unfortunate  one.  He  seems  to  delight  in 
bringing  offenders  to  justice,  not  cruel,  but  in 
full  sympathy  with  the  blue-stocking  laws  of 
the  city. 

Once  outside  of  his  own  yard,  Judge  as- 
sumes a  dignified,  stiff  air,  except  when  play- 
ing with  his  favorite  officers.  Some  people 
would  say  that  he  is  haughty,  and  at  times  he 
is,  but  if  he  turns  up  his  nose  at  a  fellow,  that 
means  that  he  considers  himself  superior  to 
that  particular  wart  on  society,  and  there  is 
generally  a  good  reason  for  his  contempt. 

Dogs  do  not  concern  Judge.  He  pays  but 
little  attention  to  their  friendly  advances  or 
threatening  growls.  If  some  vicious  cur 
snarls  and  snaps  at  his  heels,  he  curls  his 
fuzzy  tail  over  his  back  and  ignores  the  com- 
mon whelp ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  some 
soft-coated,  gentle-mannered,  pedigreed  dog 


38  Tar  Heel  Tales 

tries  to  make  up  to  him,  he  goes  to  Col. 
Black,  rubs  against  his  legs,  looks  up  into  his 
face,  and  declares:  "What  fools  these  ca- 
nines be  I  I  don't  care  one  whit  for  any  of 
them." 

From  what  has  already  been  said,  one 
might  conclude  that  Judge  is  a  coward. 
Well,  dear  reader,  you  may  disabuse  your 
mind  of  that  conclusion,  for  it  Is  wrong. 
Judge  is  a  true  North  Carolinian  —  slow  to 
anger,  but  fearfully  courageous  when  in  trou- 
ble. He  fears  no  dog  in  town.  The  com- 
mon herd  like  to  snap  at  him  from  inside  a 
secure  fence,  as  he  trots  by  in  the  wake  of 
Col.  Black,  but  none  would  dare  go  near  the 
open  gate.  Judge  just  ignores  everything 
that  keeps  its  distance.  He  has  frequently 
said  to  the  patrolmen  something  like  this: 
*'  Did  you  see  that  contemptuous  scamp 
charging  at  me?  I  would  not  lower  myself 
to  fight  him  if  he  were  out.  I  should  like 
to  sick  old  Puss  on  him  if  he'd  call  at  my 
home.'* 

In  order  to  get  Judge  to  do  battle,  a  dog 
must  assault  him.     Being  an  officer  of  the 


The  Spaniel  and  the  Cops  39 

law,  he  lives  up  to  the  letter.  If  attacked, 
he  fights  in  self-defense.  It  will  be  recalled 
that  he  put  the  little  speckled  bull-terrier,  that 
loafed  around  the  Gem  Restaurant  a  few 
years  ago,  clear  out  of  business  for  good. 
Old  Speck  lingered  between  life  and  death 
for  two  days  after  the  affray,  and  then  died 
from  his  wounds.  Other  dogs  have  fared  as 
badly.  Judge  is  slow  to  take  hold,  but  when 
he  does,  Pitts  says  it's  good  night,  Isum,  for 
death  will  creep  over  the  prostrate  form  of 
the  other  dog  before  he  can  stop  the  fight. 
That  is  the  kind  of  scrapper  Judge  is.  Like 
the  man  who  says  little,  but  hangs  on  like 
grim  death. 

I  have  always  heard  it  said  in  Providence 
that  it  was  well  to  stay  out  of  a  row  with  the 
laughing  fighter.  Such  a  one  is  Judge.  He 
winks  his  eyes  and  grins  In  the  midst  of  the 
fight. 

Col.  Black  has  one  thing  against  Judge. 
As  Mr.  Hyde  he  is  all  right,  but  as  Dr.  Jekyl 
he  is  high-headed  and  arrogant.  If  Judge 
goes  up  street  with  any  of  Dr.  Graham's  fam- 
ily, he  refuses  to  recognize  any  police  officer. 


40  Tar  Heel  Tales 

He  carries  himself  far  above  common  people 
and  soars  in  an  aristocratic  atmosphere.  If 
Col.  Black  or  Mr.  Pitts  calls  to  him  on  the 
sly,  he  lifts  his  saucy  tail  a  bit  higher  and 
gets  closer  to  his  young  mistress  or  master,  as 
the  case  may  be,  as  if  he  feared  contamination 
of  some  sort.  In  other  words,  Col.  Black 
and  his  associates  on  the  police  force  are 
proper  company  after  dark,  but  not  in  day- 
light. 

Judge  does  not  recognize  them  In  a  social 
way.  As  conclusive  evidence  on  this  point, 
I  relate  the  following  Incident : 

The  joke  is  on  Col.  Black  or  Pitts.  Col. 
Black  claims  that  it  is  on  Pitts,  and  Pitts  that 
It  is  on  the  colonel. 

One  day,  several  years  ago,  one  of  these 
worthy  officers  was  sent  to  notify  Dr.  Gra- 
ham that  a  certain  committee,  of  which  he 
was  a  member,  would  meet  that  night.  The 
officer  went  to  Dr.  Graham's  gate,  opened  it, 
and  started  to  the  porch.  Judge,  the  faith- 
ful friend  of  the  early  morning,  rushed 
around  the  house,  with  bristles  raised  and 


The  Spaniel  and  the  Cops  41 

teeth  shining,  growling  viciously.  The  of- 
ficer, seeing  the  threatening  attitude  of  the 
dog,  stopped,  and  said:  "  Why,  Judge,  don't 
you  know  me?"  Instead  of  making  up, 
after  this,  Judge  became  more  determined  to 
stop  the  officer.  He  hurried  to  the  walk- 
way, fixed  himself,  and  made  ready  for  a 
stubborn  resistance. 

"Judge!  Judge!"  said  Col.  Black  or 
Pitts,  which  ever  It  was.  But  Judge  heard 
him  not. 

Dr.  Graham,  seeing  the  predicament  of  the 
officer  from  within  the  house,  came  out  and 
assured  Judge  that  all  was  well,  and  he 
dropped  his  tall,  and  went  toward  the  kitchen, 
carrying  an  ugly  case  of  the  sulks,  seeming 
badly  put  out  because  he  did  not  get  to  bite 
the  caller. 

At  midnight  of  the  same  day.  Judge  joined 
Col.  Black  and  Pitts  on  their  rounds,  as 
bright  and  cheerful  as  ever. 

The  two  men  reasoned  It  out  after  this 
fashion :  "  Well,  I  guess  he  Is  right.  We 
are  the  stuff  when  It  comes  to  beating  around 


42  Tar  Heel  Tales 

the  city,  keeping  out  burglars  and  thieves, 
but  must  stay  In  our  places.  Judge  thought 
we  were  going  to  make  a  social  call." 

Judge  grew  greater  In  their  estimation. 
They  cursed  him  at  first,  but  finally  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  as  Mr.  Hyde  he  Is  on  an 
equality  with  policemen,  but  as  Dr.  Jekyl  out 
of  their  class. 


5! 


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A  HOUND  OF  THE  OLD  STOCK 


^^TS  dem  putty  fas'  houn's,   Marse  Law- 


I 


rence?  "  asked  Uncle  Simon  Bolick,  as 
Mr.  L.  A.  Williamson,  of  Graham,  Ala- 
mance county,  came  up  with  his  pack  of  noted 
fox  dogs. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Simon,  they  are  the  best  in 
the  country,"  was  the  answer. 

*' Yes,  sir;  I  spec'  dey  is  now,  since  ole 
marster's  stock  's  all  died  out.  But  when 
Marse  Billy  wuz  livin'  he  had  de  steppin' 
dogs.  Dey  wuz  de  swiftes'  in  de  Ian'.  Yo' 
daddy'll  tell  you  dat.  Dey  don't  have  houn's 
lak  his'n  now.  Ef  I  coul'  git  some  uv  de  ole 
Bolick  breed  I  sho'  would  git  on  ole  Beck  an' 
go  wid  you  arter  Big  Sandy,  dat  sly  ole  red 
dat  uses  in  de  Big  Crick  woods.  But  de  las' 
uv  de  stock's  gone.  When  Marse  Tim  lef 
here  he  sont  Buck  an'  Bell,  de  onlies'  ones 
livin',  to  ole  man  Bob  Bolick,  his  no  'count 

43 


44  Tar  Heel  Tales 

uncle,  up  in  de  Souf  Mountlns.  Ole  Bob 
he  never  know'd  how  to  care  for  nothin', 
much  less  er  fine  houn\  All  my  fo'ks  is  lef 
dis  section.  De  war  broke  dem  up  an'  mos' 
uv  dem's  in  de  fur  Wes\  unless  dey's  all  daid. 
But  ef  I  had  one  uv  dem  old  Bolick  houn's  I 
wouF  show  you  how  to  ketch  ole  Sandy. 
Dat's  de  gospel  truf !  " 

The  old  darkey  was  in  earnest.  His  mem- 
ory carried  him  back  and  he  lived  in  days 
gone  by,  and  scoffed  at  the  things  of  the  pres- 
ent. Life  was  not  as  sweet  to  him  as  it  had 
been  when  he  served  his  owner,  Colonel 
William  Bolick,  the  famous  old  farmer-sport 
of  Piedmont,  North  Carolina,  for  then  every 
day  was  a  holiday.  He  hunted  and  traveled 
with  his  master,  who  kept  fine  wines,  blooded 
horses  and  fast  dogs.  Truly,  those  were 
glorious  days  for  Simon,  and  he  has  never 
become  reconciled  to  the  prosaic  life  of  free- 
dom. The  Bolicks  were  prominent  in 
North  Carolina,  and  came  from  a  good  old 
English  family.  Robert,  however,  never  did 
well  and,  to  get  rid  of  him,  his  father  pur- 
chased a   fertile  moijntain  valley   farm  and 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         45 

sent  him  there  to  live.  That  suited  him,  for 
he  had  no  pride  and  but  little  ambition. 

Colonel  William  Bolick  did  well  until  the 
civil  war.  Like  many  men  of  his  class  and 
day,  however,  he  could  not  change  wnth  the 
times.  The  freeing  of  the  negroes  destroyed 
him  financially,  and  he  was  never  able  to  rally 
his  fortunes.  He  died  soon,  leaving  an  en- 
cumbered estate  and  a  family  of  boys;  the 
former  was  sold  and  the  boys  went  West. 

Old  Simon,  the  aristocratic  ex-slave,  took 
up  the  burden  of  life,  and  went  from  place  to 
place  doing  odd  jobs  here  and  there  until  two 
years  ago,  when  he  moved  to  Graham  to  live 
with  a  daughter  who  had  saved  money  and 
bought  a  home.  There  he  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mr.  Williamson,  and  never 
tired  of  telling  him  about  the  Bolick  hounds. 

A  fortunate  thing  happened  for  Simon  last 
fall.  He  was  wrong  in  his  conjecture  about 
the  passing  of  the  Bolick  stock.  It  had  not 
all  perished.  The  breed  had  been  kept  pure 
and  improved  by  the  sons  of  Bob  Bolick. 
Some  profitable  crosses  had  been  made,  and 
the  Bolick  hounds  of  South  Mountain  were 


46  Tar  Heel  Tales 

even  better  than  the  ones  formerly  owned 
by  Colonel  William  Bolick.  They  had  not 
been  hunted  after  foxes,  but  had  run  deer, 
bear,  coons  and  wild  cats. 

Zeb  Bolick,  the  most  promising  son  of  Bob, 
heard  of  the  old  family  negro  at  Graham. 
He  found  out  that  the  Bolick  hound  was  the 
hobby  of  Uncle  Simon,  and  determined  to  box 
up  one  of  the  best  young  ones  in  his  pack  and 
send  her  to  the  old  darkey.  Therefore,  on 
a  fine  day  in  October,  he  shipped  Dinah,  a 
well-built  bitch,  to  Graham,  at  the  same  time 
sending  the  following  letter  to  Simon : 

*'  Simon,  I  have  just  sent  you  a  hound  of 
the  old  Bolick  stock.  I  heard  that  you 
wanted  one.  She  is  untrained  for  foxes,  but 
will  run  anything  that  leaves  a  scent.  Accept 
her  as  a  gift  for  the  sake  of  by-gone  days.  I 
never  saw  you,  but  if  you  were  raised  by 
Uncle  William,  you  are  all  right.  I  have 
named  the  black  and  tan  lady  Dinah.  She 
looks  just  like  old  Bell,  her  great-great- 
grandmother,  except  that  she  is  larger.  She 
has  raced  all  the  flesh  off  of  her  bones,  but 
that  is  a  small  matter." 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         47 

Simon  Bolick  was  the  happiest  negro  in 
the  county.  He  rejoiced  for  two  reasons; 
the  promise  of  the  dog  made  him  happy,  and 
the  receipt  of  the  letter,  the  first  one  of  his 
life,  pleased  him.  He  told  the  town  of  his 
good  fortune,  going  from  store  to  store  show- 
ing his  letter.  It  was  like  a  dream  to  him, 
and  he  could  not  realize  that  the  dog  was 
actually  on  the  way.  He  ran  around  until 
he  was  almost  prostrate. 

For  some  cause  Dinah  was  two  days  late 
in  showing  up,  and  It  began  to  look  as  If 
somebody  had  been  joking  the  old  man. 

Simon  had  described  her  as  a  beautiful, 
gentle  animal,  full  of  life  and  well-bred  look- 
ing, but  his  imagination  had  been  too  active. 
Hence,  when  Dinah  arrived,  the  old  darkey 
was  sorely  disappointed,  for  she  was  skinny, 
raw-boned  and  dirty,  her  ribs  prominent  and 
her  back  too  sharp.  The  boys  laughed  and 
jeered  as  Simon  led  her  along  the  street. 
She  seemed  half-starved  and  tried  to  put  her 
nose  into  everything.  If  she  found  a  morsel 
to  eat  she  gulped  It  down  so  greedily  that 
the    spectators    roared    with    delight.     But 


48  Tar  Heel  Tales 

when  safely  within  his  own  yard,  the  old 
negro  made  a  thorough  examination  of  his 
dog,  and,  after  looking  her  over  from  nose- 
tip  to  tail,  he  spoke  to  himself  as  follows: 
"  Dat  ain't  no  bad  dog  ef  I'm  a  jedge.  She's 
got  de  same  marks  dat  de  ol'  houn's  had.  I 
laks  dem  thin  years,  dat  hump-back  an'  dat 
long,  keen  tail.  All  she  needs  Is  somefin' 
to  eat  an'  er  little  res'.  Me  an'  ole  Suckle 
'11  fetch  her  out.  By  de  time  de  race  arter 
Big  Sandy  comes  off  I'll  have  her  des  right, 
an'  ef  I  ain't  mightily  mistaken  she's  gwlne 
to  sho'  dem  yudder  dogs  de  bottom  uv  her 
feets  es  she  flies.  Des  es  soon  es  she  gits 
rested,  I's  gwlne  to  slip  her  off  down  to  de 
crick  an'  hear  dat  mouf.  Ef  It  soun's  lak 
ole  Bell,  den  I'll  bet  on  her  sho'  nuff." 

The  tongue  proved  right.  It  was  loud, 
clear  and  horn-like  and  could  be  distinguished 
in  any  pack.  Simon  was  happy.  His  cup 
of  joy  was  brimful  when  Mr.  Williamson 
sent  him  word  that  he  could  join  him  for  a 
chase  the  first  good  opportunity  for  a  night 
hunt.  The  old  darkey  could  hardly  wait  — 
he  was  so  anxious  for  the  hunt. 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         49 

When  the  eventful  hour  came,  Simon, 
mounted  on  his  trusty  mule.  Beck,  with  his 
master's  old  horn  on  his  back,  and  Dinah 
trotting  behind,  with  head  and  tail  down, 
overtook  the  other  hunters  just  out  of  Gra- 
ham, on  the  Haw  River  road.  The  night 
was  fine,  and  the  ground  in  first-class  condi- 
tion. The  atmosphere  was  fresh  and  sweet, 
after  a  light  shower,  and  the  weeds  and  grass 
sufficiently  damp  to  hold  a  scent.  As  Simon 
rode  up,  Mr.  Williamson  remarked: 
"  Well,  old  fellow,  if  Dinah  has  the  proper 
stuff  in  her,  and  we  hit  old  Sandy,  she  will 
have  an  opportunity  to  do  her  best  to-night, 
for  the  weather  is  ideal.'* 

"Yes,  sir;  dat's  so;  Mr.  Fox'll  smell 
mighty  good  arter  de  little  sprinkle.  I  ain't 
sayin'  much  erbout  my  dog  yit,  'cause  she 
ain't  never  run  but  one  or  two  foxes  in  her 
life,  but  I  feels  lak  she  wuz  des  gwine  to 
fall  in  wid  de  res'  an'  do  her  part." 

Some  of  the  mischievous  chaps  in  the  party 
twitted  the  old  negro  about  his  hound,  call- 
ing her  "  skinflint,'*  "  meat-catcher,"  "  rab- 


50  Tar  Heel  Tales 

bit-chaser,"  and  the  like,  but  he  laughed  and 
advised  them  to  wait  and  see. 

The  hunters  had  not  gone  far  when 
Trump,  a  young  dog,  routed  a  rabbit, 
and  drove  him  flying  across  the  road.  Five 
or  six  puppies  joined  in  and  hurried  old 
mollie-cotton-tail  to  the  thicket  of  a  near-by 
stream.  Soon  a  turn  was  made  and  all  came 
back.  The  dogs  were  close  behind  Brer 
Rabbit,  and  a  new  mouth  carried  the  lead. 
Uncle  Simon,  with  much  joy  in  his  heart, 
cried  out:  "Listen  at  dat  horn-mouf! 
Dat's  Dinah,  an'  she's  in  front !  " 

Mr.  Williamson  was  charmed  with  the 
deep  bark  of  Skinny  Dinah.  It  was  wrong 
to  encourage  the  rabbit  hunters,  but  the  boys 
could  not  refrain  from  galloping  ahead  to 
see  the  race.  Dinah  was  literally  splitting 
the  wind.  She  did  not  tarry  or  linger,  but 
picked  up  the  scent  here  and  there  and  has- 
tened on.  Simon  blew  his  horn  and  all  of 
the  culprits,  except  Dinah,  came  in;  and  her 
tongue  ceased.  It  was  surmised  that  she  had 
caught  the  rabbit  and  was  eating  a  second 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         51 

supper.  Soon  she  overtook  her  proud 
owner,  her  mouth  blood-stained  and  her  sides 
sticking  out.     The  laugh  was  on  the  darkey. 

Far  to  the  right  came  the  melodious  note 
of  Trouble,  the  faithful  old  strike  dog.  He 
had  ranged  toward  Bull  Nose  Creek  and 
struck  a  hot  scent.  Mark,  Mr.  Williamson's 
colored  valet,  declared,  "  Dat's  where  dey 
strikes  ole  Sandy,  an'  Trouble  knowed  where 
to  hit  him  I  " 

The  hunters  struck  a  gallop  and  the  dogs 
were  "  barkened  "  in  —  Jerry,  Jude,  Kate, 
Sing,  Music,  Flora,  Black  Bill,  Red  Ball, 
Trumpet  and  Flirt.  Strive,  a  big,  deep- 
mouthed,  bob-tailed  hound,  opened  some  dis- 
tance in  front  of  the  rest.  He  was  a  fast 
trailer,  making  time  and  ground  by  sighting 
logs  and  wet  places  ahead  and  hitting  here 
and  there.  He  had  good  dog  sense  and 
knew  the  ways  of  Reynard,  and,  under  his 
leadership,  the  pack  soon  had  a  running  trail. 

Mark  dismounted  and  examined  the  track. 
"  It  sho'  is  ole  Sandy,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said 
he.  "  If  you  don't  believe  it,  come  here  an' 
look."     And  so  it  turned  out. 


52  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  dogs  moved  across  Cedar  Hill  toward 
Holt's  Bay  and  Drowning  Creek.  The 
young  hounds,  all  but  Dinah,  were  chiming 
In  at  the  rear.  Dinah  seemed  Interested,  but 
lazy.  However,  she  kept  nibbling  at  the 
track.  As  the  hounds  went  In  on  the  north 
side  of  Holt's  Bay,  old  Sandy  slipped  out  on 
the  other  side.  Red  Ball,  the  famous  leader 
of  the  pack,  got  a  live  scent  of  the  cunning 
fox  as  he  set  out,  and  rushed  through  the 
thicket,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  picked  up  the 
hot  track.  There  was  consternation  among 
the  dogs  for  a  moment,  but  In  a  jiffy  every 
last  mouth,  even  that  of  Dinah,  was  giving 
tongue  behind  Red  Ball. 

As  was  the  custom  of  Sandy,  he  took  a 
short  round  to  try  the  quality  of  the  pack. 
He  raced  three  miles  and  back  over  level 
country,  entered  the  bay  where  he  went  out, 
dodged  through  and  started  for  the  swamps 
of  Big  Creek,  five  miles  away,  to  the  north. 
The  hounds  were  in  hot  pursuit.  Red  Ball  In 
the  lead,  closely  followed  by  Trumpet,  Sing 
and  Flirt. 

About  every  fourth  leap  Ball  would  cry, 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         53 

*'  Yock!  Yocky-yocky  yock!  "  It  was  sweet 
music  to  the  ear.  He  did  not  bark  often, 
but  his  voice  was  strong  and  piercing.  Dinah 
brought  up  the  rear,  but  was  now  thoroughly 
aroused,  though  the  rabbit  had  made  her 
heavy  and  slow.  Simon  was  delighted  to 
see  her  sticking  to  it  so  well  and  showing 
such  interest. 

The  hunters  rode  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
dismounted  and  waited  patiently  for  the  fox 
and  the  dogs  to  return.  It  might  be  an  hour, 
or  it  might  be  four,  but  Sandy  always  came 
back  to  Drowning  Creek,  and  the  faster  the 
race  the  quicker  the  return. 

Mr.  Williamson  and  his  companions  did 
not  have  to  loiter  long  that  night,  for  within 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  the  hounds 
went  out  of  hearing,  Mark,  with  his  keen 
ear,  heard  the  tongue  of  Red  Ball.  It  was 
coming  back,  "  Yock !     Yocky-yocky  yock !  " 

The  men  hurried  to  a  road  crossing  to  see 
the  pack  as  it  passed.  Dogs  had  changed 
places.  Some  of  the  short-winded  runners 
had  dropped  out  and  others  fallen  back. 
But  Simon's  Dinah  had  performed  the  most 


'54  Tar  Heel  Tales 

wonderful  feat;  instead  of  bringing  up  the 
tail-end,  she  was  pushing  Ball.  Her  tongue 
was  mingling  with  his,  and  the  old  negro 
could  not  constrain  himself.  He  just  had  to 
yell,  and  yell  he  did,  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"  As  sho'  es  de  Lawd,"  he  shouted,  "  she's 
one  uv  de  ole  stock  I  " 

But  it  was  no  time  to  shout.  The  dogs 
were  flying  on,  and  any  inopportune  whoop 
might  bother  them,  so  Simon  was  rebuked  by 
the  captain  of  the  party. 

Sandy  covered  his  three-mile  circuit  again, 
and  returned  to  Holt's  Bay.  By  that  time 
he  saw  that  his  life  was  in  danger,  for  the 
hounds  were  racing  him  faster  than  he  ever 
had  to  go  before.  If  the  gait  continued 
death  would  be  staring  him  in  the  face,  so  he 
determined  to  put  forth  his  best  efforts  in  a 
run  to  Buck  Hill  and  back,  a  total  of  sixteen 
miles,  but  by  foiling  several  miles  he  would 
have  ample  time  to  dodge  In  Holt's  Bay. 
The  dogs  were  close  after  him  when  he  left 
for  Buck  Hill,  with  Red  Ball,  and  Dinah 
cheek  by  jowl.  Ball  was  running  wild,  while 
Dinah  seemed  to  be  getting  better.     To  the 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         ^^ 

west  the  flying  pack  went,  the  tongues  of  Ball 
and  Dinah  blended  in  one  sound.  Simon  was 
so  elated  that  he  could  not  be  still,  moving 
about  like  a  crazy  man. 

When  the  music  ceased,  Mr.  Williamson 
turned  to  Uncle  Simon  and  said,  "  Old  man, 
I'll  give  you  fifty  dollars  for  her." 

"  Marse  Lawrence,  I  needs  de  money,  but 
I  wouldn't  swap  dat  dog  f er  yo'  cotton  mill  ; 
no  sar,  dat  I  wouldn't." 

After  that  there  was  no  sound  for  more 
than  two  hours,  though  the  hunters  listened 
with  strained  ears.  Mark  was  the  first  to 
hear  the  returning  music.  He  cried: 
"  Hush !  There  they  come  I  Dinah's  in 
the  lead!" 

"  Yoo-it  yoo-it  yoo-it  I  yoo-it  I  "  came  the 
sound  rending  the  air.  Ball  had  fallen  back 
ten  feet  or  more.  Again  the  hunters  has- 
tened to  a  place  where  they  could  view  the 
dogs.  That  time  they  saw  the  fox.  Big 
Sandy.  He  was  but  thirty  yards  ahead,  with 
tail  dragging  the  ground  and  tongue  hanging 
out. 

His  last  race  was  run.     The  fatal  day  had 


56  Tar  Heel  Tales 

come.  But  he  had  pluck  to  struggle  on. 
Dinah  and  her  mates  came  on,  tired  but 
strong.  Sandy  was  pulling  for  Holt's  Bay, 
where  he  could  turn  and  double  about,  and 
worry  the  dogs.  But  the  sight  of  the  men 
and  the  horses  seemed  to  urge  Dinah  on. 
They  gave  her  courage  and  she  gained  on 
the  fox.  As  she  crossed  a  hillock  In  the 
edge  of  the  woods  and  turned  down  the  op- 
posite side,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Big 
Sandy.  Her  heart  beat  with  joy  and  she 
went  forward  with  renewed  vigor.  The 
other  dogs  and  the  hunters  were  close  In  her 
wake.  They  had  noted  the  change  in  her 
tongue  and  knew  full  well  what  it  meant. 
It  was  a  sight  race  from  there  to  the  thicket, 
and  Dinah  had  the  advantage.  Big  Sandy 
dodged  and  twisted,  but  his  last  moment  had 
arrived.  Dinah  pounced  on  his  back  just  as 
he  entered  the  edge  of  the  bay,  and  it  was 
all  over. 

Dinah  had  proved  her  mettle,  and  Big 
Sandy  was  dead.  Uncle  Simon  was  so  happy 
that  he  could  not  speak.     He  fell  upon  his 


A  Hound  of  the  Old  Stock         57 

dog  and  embraced  her,  while  the  boys  patted 
him  on  the  back  and  rejoiced  with  him. 
Dinah  rolled  and  groaned  in  the  broom  sage, 
the  idol  of  the  hour. 


MINERVA  — THE  OWL 

WHEN  In  Charlotte,  I  make  my  home 
at  411  North  Tryon  street,  in  a  pri- 
vate family.  My  hostess,  Mrs.  Barrlnger, 
widow  of  General  Rufus  Barringer,  owns  an 
owl  of  the  Asia  Accipitrimus  or  short-eared 
species;  her  name  Is  Minerva  and  she  is  a 
very  common  bird.  Hundreds  like  her  dwell 
along  the  wooded  streams  of  Mecklenburg 
and  adjoining  counties.  None  of  them  are 
beautiful.  The  one  of  which  I  write  has 
but  one  redeeming  feature.  She  Is  grateful 
to  her  mistress  who,  alone,  has  fondled  and 
petted  her.  In  this  she  acts  well  and  shows 
a  trait  that  but  few  men  have. 

Where  did  this  strange,  quaint  and  curious 
creature  come  from?  Why  did  she  become 
a  thing  to  be  domesticated  and  cared  for  like 
the  beautiful  little  canary  or  the  sweet- 
tongued  mocking  bird?  Is  she  the  apple  of 
any  person's  eye,  or  the  pride  of  any  home? 

58 


Minerva  —  the  Owl  59 

To  the  last  question  I  should  say:  "No; 
she  is  nobody's  darling." 

The  owner  of  Minerva  was  not  looking 
for  her  when  she  came  nor  did  she  especially 
desire  to  become  the  possessor  of  such  a 
charge.  A  friend  sent  her  as  a  present  from 
a  neighboring  town.  She  had  been  lifted 
from  her  nest,  a  tiny,  awkward,  helpless 
birdie,  and  dropped  into  our  home  suddenly. 

What  was  to  be  done  ? 

Had  she  been  given  her  liberty  in  Char- 
lotte, either  by  night  or  by  day,  a  violent 
death  would  have  been  her  fate.  Hungry 
cats  were  ready  to  crack  her  delicate  bones, 
and  the  street  urchin,  with  his  never-failing 
sling  shot,  or  air-rifle,  was  eager  to  try  his 
skill  on  just  such  a  mark. 

Truly,  the  ugly,  dirty,  drab-colored  little 
bird  was  far  from  enthusiastic  friend  or  kin- 
dred. None  of  her  kind  are  within  several 
miles  of  the  town.  But  if  she  could  have 
been  taken  to  the  woods  and  set  free  she 
would  have  died  from  starvation  and  loneli- 
ness, for  she  was  young,  innocent  and  inex- 
perienced. 


6o  Tar  Heel  Tales 

Indeed,  she  must  be  fed,  housed  and  cared 
for  as  an  object  of  charity,  for,  truly,  she 
lacked  lovable  characteristics.  At  first  she 
had  but  one  friend  and  that,  her  owner,  and 
to  her  she  owes  life  and  what  happiness  she 
has  had. 

For  twelve  months  of  her  existence,  after 
she  arrived,  Minerva  lived  in  a  large  wire- 
screen  chicken  pen,  situated  beneath  my  room 
window.  It  was  there  that  she  grew  Into 
the  dignified  old  lady  that  she  is.  The  pen 
was  built  and  is  used  for  cooping  chickens 
for  the  table.  At  times  it  was  well  filled 
with  a  fine  lot  of  hens  and  then,  again, 
empty.  Minerva  watched  the  dally  slaugh- 
ter of  her  strange  companions  with  apparent 
concern  from  the  highest  perch  she  could 
find.  She  would  not  associate  with  them. 
However,  she  soon  discovered  that  they  were 
afraid  of  her.  Those  direct  from  the  coun- 
try, sought  the  farthest  corner  from  her. 
All  this  she  did  not  understand,  for  having 
seen  none  of  her  peculiar  family,  she  must 
have  felt  that  she  was  of  the  same  blood  as 
her  fellow  creatures.     She  tried  diligently  to 


Minerva  —  the  Owl  6i 

unravel  the  mystery.  Her  thoughts  were 
along  the  line  of  these  questions,  I  Imagine, 
from  the  serious  look  she  always  wore  upon 
her  face:  "Why  do  they  avoid  me?  Will 
that  dreadful  tall  creature  from  the  kitchen 
come  and  wring  my  head  off  like  he  has  done 
others?  What  does  it  all  mean?  Have  I 
but  one  friend,  the  sweet  old  lady  who  raises 
the  window  every  morning  and  greets 
me?" 

The  only  trouble  Minerva  had  In  her  early 
captivity  was  given  by  Osmond,  the  son  of 
her  mistress,  who  set  Jack,  his  fierce  bull 
terrier,  after  her.  The  dog  could  not  get 
Inside  the  enclosure,  but  w^ould  frighten  her 
Into  hysterics  by  charging  against  the  wire 
and  barking  viciously.  Under  this  excite- 
ment she  took  the  only  exercise  she  got,  fly- 
ing from  pole  to  pole  and  snapping  her  bill. 
What  the  bull  dog  and  his  master  did  for 
her  Minerva  did  for  the  timid  chickens. 
She  amused  herself  daily  by  chasing  them 
around.  By  Instinct  an  owl  captures  a  fowl 
by  pushing  it  off  of  a  perch  and  catching  it 
on  the  wing.     Minerva  would  drop  on  the 


62  Tar  Heel  Tales 

pole  by  the  side  of  a  frightened  hen  and 
shove  her  off,  just  to  see  her  squirm  and  hear 
her  squall.  She  kept  this  sport  up  for 
months.  Every  time  a  new  chicken  was 
turned  in  she  would  haze  her,  much  to  the 
delight  of  those  who  could  watch  the  game. 

But,  now,  Minerva  is  too  much  of  a  lady 
to  engage  in  such  youthful  pranks.  She  sits 
on  her  perch  and  keeps  tab  on  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  our  neighbors.  She  announces 
the  time  of  night  that  Colonel  Willie  Harty 
comes  in  and  sings  a  funeral  dirge  out  of 
respect  for  Fritz,  the  deceased  dog  of  Mr. 
John  Oates.  In  her  more  cheerful  moods, 
she  warbles  after  this  manner:  "  Toot,  oot, 
hoot,  toot  I"  "Toot,  oot,  hoot,  toot!!'' 
That  is  very  owlish  and  I  have  found  no  one 
who  could  translate  it  into  English. 

Mrs.  Barringer,  being  a  woman  of  noble 
heart,  decided,  not  long  ago,  to  give  the  bird 
her  freedom.  William,  the  man  servant, 
was  instructed  to  turn  her  out  and  see  that  no 
enemy  harmed  her.  We  all  believed  that 
she  would  be  glad  to  leave  the  place  for  good 
at  the  first  opportunity,  for  she  did  not  seem 


Minerva  —  the  Owl  63 

to  care  for  or  even  trust  any  one  but  her 
mistress,  to  whom  she  would  go  when  called 
or  notice  when  spoken  to.  But  we  had 
reckoned  wrong.  She  did  not  desire  to  de- 
part from  us.  Her  hours  are  whiled  away 
in  such  cozy  nooks  and  corners  as  she  elects 
to  occupy  in  the  back  yard.  She  Is  growing 
fat  and  familiar  with  mankind  and  beast. 

But,  with  liberty,  protection  and  free- 
lunch,  Minerva  Is  not  permitted  to  be  con- 
tented and  happy.  She  has  a  swarm  of 
unrelenting  feathered  enemies  that  make  her 
life  a  burden.  The  blue  jay,  the  red-headed 
peckerwood,  the  harsh  catbird,  and  the  cruel 
English  sparrow  are  her  fiercest  foes.  They 
annoyed  her  no  little  while  confined  in  the 
chicken  pen,  by  railing  at  her  through  the 
wire,  but  now  they  dare  to  pluck  feathers 
from  her  back  and  puncture  her  body  with 
sharp  bills.  The  mischievous  old  jay  lands 
in  the  morning  before  the  servants  come  or 
the  occupants  of  the  house  begin  to  stir,  de- 
livers an  inflammatory  speech  and  urges  his 
hearers  to  fight  for  their  rights,  their  homes, 
their  wives  and  their  little  ones. 


64  Tar  Heel  Tales 

It  was  my  fortune,  good  or  bad,  to  see  one 
of  these  crowds  assembled,  to  hear  one  of  the 
addresses  and  witness  an  onslaught,  one  fine 
Sunday  morning,  several  weeks  ago.  I  had 
retired  early  the  night  before  and  slept  well. 
The  first  call  of  Mr.  Blue  Jay  waked  me. 
I  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  on  through  the 
window  blinds.  The  jay,  feigning  great  in- 
dignation, sat  in  the  top  of  an  elm  tree,  not 
ten  feet  from  the  window.  His  voice  rang 
out  loud  and  shrill  through  the  light  morning 
air.  It  was  barkened  to  by  all  the  winged 
kind  for  several  blocks.  The  red-headed 
woodpecker  quit  his  hammering  on  the 
steeple  of  the  Lutheran  church  across  the 
street,  and  flew  In  all  haste  to  join  in  the 
outcry  with  his  rasping  voice.  The  catbird 
sailed  out  from  a  neighboring  fig  bush  and 
came  tumbling  and  screaming  across  the  gar- 
den. English  sparrows  poured  in  by  the 
score  from  all  directions  until  the  tree  was 
alive  with  their  nervous  little  bodies. 

All  was  consternation  and  fuss  at  first, 
but  soon  the  jay  got  the  floor  and  made  this 
very  bitter  and  Impressive   speech :     "  Fel- 


Minerva  —  the  Owl  6$ 

low  creatures:  Here  we  are  defied  by  the 
vilest  bird  that  left  the  ark.  She  lurks 
about  and  seeks  to  do  murder  to  you  and  to 
me,  to  yours  and*  to  mine.  Our  homes,  our 
wives  and  our  children  are  in  danger! 
What  shall  we  do?  Must  we  stand  quietly 
by  and  see  our  loved  ones  killed  and  their 
flesh  defiled  by  this  designing  old  night-as- 
sassin? I  answer:  *  No  !  '  Why,  she  was 
despised  and  hated  by  the  people  of  old. 
Hear  what  the  Great  Book  says  about  her! 
When  Job's  honor  was  turned  into  extreme 
contempt  and  his  prosperity  Into  calamity, 
he  cried:  *  I  am  a  brother  to  dragons,  and 
a  companion  to  owls.' 

"Babylon  was  threatened:  *  It  shall 
never  be  inhabited,  etc. 

"  '  But  wild  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  lie 
there,  and  their  houses  shall  be  full  of  dole- 
ful creatures ;  and  owls  shall  dwell  there,  and 
satyrs  shall  dance  there.' 

"  Yes,  we  must  slay  the  detested  creature. 
She  Is  an  Imposition.  I  command  you  to  rise 
In  your  might  and  drive  her  out  of  our  para- 
dise 1 


66  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  The  English  sparrow  will  lead  the 
charge. 

"All  together! 

"Charge!  Bite!  Scratch!  Squall! 
Poise  the  head !  '' 

Off  they  went  In  a  body  to  wage  war  on 
old  Minerva,  who  had  seen  the  antics  and 
heard  the  words  of  the  Indignant  meddlers 
from  her  comfortable  seat  on  a  wheelbarrow- 
handle,  just  under  a  thick  circle  of  a  grape 
vine.  It  Is  useless  to  say  that  she  was  badly 
frightened,  for  she  dreaded  the  sharp  beak 
and  the  fury  of  the  courageous  little  sparrow ; 
he  was  so  swift  and  determined  In  action 
that  his  onslaughts  were  to  be  feared.  The 
bombastic  jay,  the  timid  catbird  and  the 
blatant  woodpecker  gave  her  no  concern. 

The  fight  was  In  earnest  when  William, 
the  servant,  hove  In  sight.  Minerva  had 
lost  several  batches  of  feathers  and  her  back 
was  sore  where  the  sparrows  had  billed  her. 
At  the  flight  of  her  assailants  and  the  ap- 
pearance of  William,  she  chirped:  "Toot, 
toot,  toot!  " 

This  Is  a  brief  sketch  of  Minerva's  life. 


Minerva  —  the  Owl  67 

She  is  shunned,  despised  and  distrusted  by  all 
the  Charlotte  feathered  tribe.  She  is  alone 
in  the  world.  Her  appearance  is  against  her 
and  she  has  no  accomplishments.  She  can 
neither  sing  nor  dance.  Truly  she  is  "  the 
bird  with  the  hoe.'* 


UNCLE  DERRICK  IN  WASHINGTON 

IT  was  the  week  after  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
President  of  the  United  States,  had 
Booker  Washington,  a  famous  negro  edu- 
cator, at  the  White  House  for  dinner  with 
him,  and  the  press  of  the  land  had  sent  the 
news  broadcast. 

"  Good  morning,  Uncle  Derrick,  where 
are  you  off  for  to-day?"  asked  Dr.  F.  L. 
Smith  of  Concord,  of  his  fellow-townsman, 
Derrick  Alexander,  the  old  colored  wood- 
chopper,  as  he  trudged  along  the  street. 

"  I's  gwlne  to  de  Big  House  at  Washing- 
ton, where  de  President  lives,"  said  the  old 
darkey. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Fs  on  my  way  to  see  President 
Roseanfelt." 

"What  are  you  going  to  see  him  for?" 
inquired  Dr.  Smith. 

"  Why,  ain't  you  been  readin'  in  de  papers 
'bout  dem  big  festerbuls  dat  Mr.  Roseanfelt 

68 


Uncle  Derrick  at  Home. 


Uncle  Derrick  In  Washington        69 

an'  his  fine  lady's  been  havin'  spechully  fer  dc 
niggers?  Dat's  it,  sir!  Dere's  where 
Uncle  Derrick's  goln'." 

The  old  fellow  was  in  earnest.  He  wore 
his  best  shoes  —  a  new  pair  of  number  four- 
teen brogans  —  a  weather-beaten  stovepipe 
hat  and  an  antiquated  suit  of  livery.  In  a 
bandanna  handkerchief,  swung  over  the  end 
of  a  stout  cane  across  his  shoulder,  he  carried 
a  few  odds  and  ends  of  dress. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Derrick,  how  much  money 
are  you  taking  with  you?  Can  you  go  in 
good  style?  '' 

"  Boss,  dat's  de  weak  p'Int  'bout  my  trip. 
De  ole  nigger's  des  got  ernuff  to  git  to  Salis- 
bury, but  ef  he  can't  fine  er  frien'  dere  to  hep 
him  on  he'll  walk.  I's  gwine  to  go  ef  de 
Lawd  lets  me  live.  De  time  dat  I's  been 
waitin'  fer  Is  done  come.  It  sho'  is.  All 
de  niggers  In  my  part  uv  de  town  Is  talkin' 
'bout  goln'.  President  Roseanfelt  (dat's 
what  de  Dutch  folks  uv  Keebarrus  county 
calls  him)  sho'  is  de  frien'  uv  de  nigger. 
Think  uv  it!  Niggers  wid  deyer  shinin' 
clothes  on  eatin'  wId  de  rich  white  folks  uv 


70  Tar  Heel  Tales 

de  Ian'  I  I  ain't  got  no  fine  clothes,  but  ef  de 
ole  nigger  kin  des  git  dere  he'll  be  all  right; 
some  good  white  gem'man  frum  de  Souf  will 
hand  me  out  er  thanky-suit.  No,  sir,  I  ain't 
'spectin'  no  trouble  arter  I  git  dere  fer  de  ole 
nigger's  mighty  handy  'bout  de  house.  Ef 
I  can't  git  in  at  de  fust  table  I  kin  at  de 
secon'." 

"  But,  Uncle  Derrick,  they  won't  let  a 
cornfield  negro  go  in  the  White  House;  it's 
high-toned  negroes,  like  Booker  Washington 
and  John  Dancy,  that  attend  the  receptions 
of  the  President." 

"  What?  Dem  yaller  niggers!  Dey  ain't 
fitten  to  go  wid  de  quality.  It's  de  right 
black  nigger  dat's  got  de  'ristocrat  blood  in 
him.  My  ole  marster  uster  say  dat  a  light- 
skin  nigger  an'  er  roan  mule  wuz  de  wust 
things  in  de  worP. 

*'  No,  sir,  I  ain't  skeered  uv  no  nigger  wid 
er  yaller  skin.  Ef  I  des  kin  git  to  de  Big 
House  dat's  all  I  ax;  I'll  do  de  rest." 

Dr.  Smith,  seeing  that  Derrick  was  serious, 
furnished  him  with  money  to  buy  a  ticket  to 


Uncle  Derrick  in  Washington        71 

Washington  and  urged  him  to  go  forth  and 
be  merry. 

But,  a  week  later,  Derrick  returned  to 
Concord,  ragged  and  bruised.  His  clothes 
had  been  rent  in  many  places  and  his  head 
badly  wounded.  He  hobbled  up  town  and 
called  on  Dr.  Smith,  to  whom  he  told  the 
story  of  his  visit  to  Washington,  and  recited 
the  fearful  tale  of  woe  that  follows: 

"  Marster,  I  'clare  'fo'  Gawd  dat  I'll  never 
leave  home  ergin  while  I  live.  Dere's  mo' 
good  foks  in  Concord  dan  anywhere  else. 
I'll  die  right  here.  Dem  Washington  foks  Is 
de  meanes'  people  dat  I  ever  seed.  De  nig- 
gers Is  bigity  an'  de  white  men  don't  pay  no 
'tention  to  you,  an'  dat's  one  place  de  po- 
leesmens  don't  take  no  draggin'  fer  dey'll 
knock  you  down  fer  lookin'  mad.  I  sho' 
did  think  that  judgment  day  had  come  when 
I  got  dere. 

**  De  trip  up  dere  on  de  train  wuz  fust- 
class.  I  seed  lots  uv  fine  people  on  de  way. 
But  no  sooner  dan  I  lit  on  de  groun'  at 
Washington  my  trouble  started. 


72  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  I  followed  de  yudder  travelers  f  um  dc 
train  out  to  de  street,  where  I  met  a  big  buck 
nigger,  wearin'  uv  a  beaver.  I  know'd  dat 
he  was  fixin'  to  go  to  de  festerbul.  He  had 
on  er  Jim-swinger  coat  an'  high-top  boots. 
I  step  up  to  him  an'  say :  *  Is  dis  de  day 
fer  de  President's  big  blow-out  to  de  niggers 
an'  de  big  white  foks  ?  '  De  rascal  look  me 
up  an'  down  an'  all  over  an'  ax :  *  What  is 
you  talkin'  'bout,  ole  Rube?  What  do  you 
know  'bout  de  President's  functions  ? '  I 
stop  right  dere  fer  I  seed  de  kinder  nigger  I 
wuz  talkin'  to.  He  was  too  highferlutin' 
fer  me,  talkin'  'bout  functions;  when  er  nig- 
ger quits  sayin'  festerbul  it's  time  to  let  him 
erlone.  I  axed  him  de  way  to  de  Big  House 
an'  he  sed,  *  Go  to  de  yavenue  an'  up.'  I 
say,  *  What's  dat  ?  '  He  answer,  '  It's  de 
bigges'  street  in  de  town.' 

"  I  move  on  till  I  meet  er  pleasant  lookin' 
white  gem'man  who  say  dat  he's  frum  Ala- 
bam.  I  knowed  dat  he  wuz  uv  de  bes'  stock 
In  de  country,  fer  he  had  on  good  clothes  an' 
er  big  wide  brim  hat,  one  la'k  ole  master 
useter  wear.     I   pull  off   my   hat   an'   say, 


Uncle  Derrick  In  Washington        73 

'  Boss,  does  you  live  here?  '  '  No,'  he  say, 
*why?' 

"  I  seed  dat  he  wuz  all  right,  so  I  pop  er 
few  questions  to  him.  *  Boss,  Is  dis  de  day 
uv  de  festerbul  at  de  Big  House  fer  de  culled 
peoples  an'  yudders  ?  '  Well,  sir,  he  smile 
way  down  to  his  Adam's  apple,  des  la'k  de 
question  do  him  good,  and  say,  *  Is  you  think- 
in'  'bout  'tendin'  one  uv  de  White  House  to- 
do's?' 

"  ^  Yes,  sir,  dat's  what  I  come  up  here  fer; 
I  lives  in  Concord,  North  Carollny,  wid 
Marse  Jim  Cannon,  Marse  John  Wadsworth 
an'  de  rest.  I  sho'  do  wish  dat  you'd  hep  me 
git  in.  I'se  des  as  good  as  dem  yaller  nig- 
gers dat's  been  Vlted.' 

*'  He  des  chuckle  when  I  tol'  him  'bout 
my  bizness  up  dere.  He  reach  in  his  pocket 
an'  fetch  out  a  ticket  wid  his  name  on  it  an' 
when  he  write,  *  Let  dis  nigger  in  de  White 
House  to  de  festerbul,'  he  handed  It  to  me  an' 
say,  *  Dat'll  git  you  in.' 

"  *  But,  uncle,'  he  say,  *  dey  don't  call  de 
to-do's  festerbuls,  la'k  dey  do  down  Souf,  but 
dey  is  functions  an'  ceptlons.' 


74  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  *  Well,'  I  say,  *  des  so  dey  have  good 
things  to  eat,  dat's  all  dat  I  care  'bout.  We 
calls  'em  festerbuls.' 

*' '  Why,'  he  'clare,  *  dey  don't  have  noth- 
in'  to  eat.  You  des  go  up  dere  an'  shake 
hands  wid  de  big  fo'ks.  Dat's  all  you  do. 
Dere  ain't  no  eatin'  'bout  it.' 

"  Dat  didn't  suit  dis  nigger  an'  I  wuz  hot 
under  de  collar,  fer  Marse  John  Wadsworth 
tolt  me,  'fo'  I  lef  dat  dey  woul'  have  er  'pos- 
sum as  big  as  er  sheep  an'  sweet-taters  an' 
gravy  by  de  gallun.  Dat  wuz  what  I  went 
fer.  I  kin  shake  ban's  wid  folks  at  home.  I 
thought  de  gem'man  wuz  tryin'  to  fool  me, 
but  I  didn't  tell  him  so.  He  look  at  me  an' 
laugh,  an'  den  go  on  'bout  his  bizness. 

**  I  go  on  up  de  yavenue  an'  meet  all  de 
fo'ks.  I  didn't  know  dat  dere  wuz  so  many 
people  in  de  worl'.  I  step  in  front  uv  a 
nice  lookln'  man  an'  ax,  *  Boss,  Is  chuch  out?  ' 
I  seed  de  crowd  an'  thought  dat  wuz  de 
trouble.  But  de  man  hain't  answer  my  ques- 
tion yit.  He  look  me  in  de  eye,  stick  out  his 
han'  to  shake  wid  me,  an'  say,  *  Jones  Is  my 
name.     What    did   you    say    yourn    wuz  ? ' 


Uncle  Derrick  in  Washington        75 

Dat  wuz  somefin'  else.  I  wuzn't  uster 
shakin'  wid  white  fo'ks,  but  I  thought  he 
might  be  kin  to  de  President,  so  I  ketched  his 
han'  an'  'clare,  '  My  name  is  Derrick  Alex- 
ander, frum  Concord,  North  Caroliny.' 
Well,  de  bref  lef  me  when  he  say,  *  What 
kin  I  do  fer  you,  Mr.  Alexander?'  Tse 
ninety  years  ole,  but  dat's  de  fust  time  dat  er 
white  man  ever  calt  me  *  Mister.'  I  slip 
erway  fum  de  man  quick  fer  I  knowed  dat 
he  wuz  one  uv  dem  Yankees  dat  ole  marster 
uster  cuss  so  hard.  I  went  on  up  de  yavenue, 
but  kep'  lookin'  back  to  see  ef  he  wuz  arter 
me.  Frum  dat  time  on  it  seem  to  me  dat  all 
de  fo'ks  dat  I  see  wuz  Yankees.  Dey  la'k 
ter  driv'  me  crazy.     Dat's  de  truf. 

"  Dat  wuz  de  longes'  street  dat  I  ever  seed, 
for  it  took  me  er  half  er  day  to  git  to  de 
Big  House  yard.  I  wuz  des  wile  fer  all  de 
niggers  dat  I  seed  wuz  bigity  an'  de  white 
fo'ks  wuz  mean.  De  little  niggers  look  at 
me  an'  laugh.  Ef  I  had  been  back  in  Con- 
cord I'd  busted  some  uv  deyer  noggin's,  but 
I  wuz  skeered  to  do  it  up  dere.  By  de  time 
I  got  to  de  Big  House  gate  I  wuz  mad  an' 


^6 


Tar  Heel  Talcs 


'stractcd.  It  'peers  dat  everybudy  wuz  ergin 
me.  As  I  started  to  step  up  In  de  gate  er 
man  wcarin'  cr  uneeform  an'  brass  buttons 
come  out  frum  behint  er  bush  an'  say,  sassy 
la'k,  *  Don't  come  In  here,  ole  man !  DIs's 
no  place  fer  niggers ! ' 

"  Well,  sir,  dat  raised  my  dander.  I  des 
made  up  my  mine  to  go  In  dere  anyhow.  So 
I  say,  *  I'm  goln'  to  see  de  President  ef  I 
have  ter  lick  you.'  He  grin  back  at  me  an 
'clare,  *  Dere's  de  President  now.  He  an 
his  boy,  goln'  fer  er  ride.' 

"  I  turnt  my  head  an'  looked  roun'  an 
sho'  'nuff,  dere  wuz  er  man  an'  er  boy  ridin 
bob-tall  horses.  I  yell  out,  '  Hello,  Mr 
President!  Dis  ole  Derrick,  frum  Concord 
He's  come  to  yo'  festerbuL'  I  don't  know 
why,  but  dat  peered  to  make  him  mad  an 
his  upper  lip  histed  up  lack  er  winder  shade 
an'  his  lower  lip  fall  down.  I  'clare  fo'  de 
Lawd  dat  I  never  seed  sich  a  mouf  full  uv 
teef  In  my  life.  Dey  shine  so  dat  dey  look 
la'k  dem  new  tombstones  In  Red  Hill  grave- 
yard. An'  he  ain't  stop  at  grinnin',  fer  he  say 
to  de  plesman  clo§e  to  me,  *  'Rest  dat  crank 


Uncle  Derrick  in  Washington        77 

uv  er  nigger  an'  lock  him  up  I  '  Dat  wuz  de 
las'  straw.  I  des  square  mysef  fer  to  fight. 
But  dat's  all  dat  I  know  den,  fer  de  man  wid 
de  uneeform  whack  me  over  de  head  wid  his 
billy-stick  an'  put  me  ter  sleep.  Dat's  what 
made  de  hole  In  my  fold.  As  I  wuz  on  de 
way  to  de  gard  house  wid  de  officer,  I  hearn 
somebudy  say,  ^  Why,  dat's  ole  Derrick  x^lex- 
ander.  What's  he  bin  doin',  Mr.  Officer?' 
*  Tryin'  to  git  to  de  White  House.*  '  Well, 
des  as  soon  as  he  gits  able  to  travel  I'll  send 
him  home.' 

"  I  didn't  know  who  it  wuz  den,  but  I 
hearn  later  dat  it  w^uz  Congressman  Theo. 
Kluttz,  from  Salisbury.  I  had  fetched  water 
fer  him  ter  drink  at  er  speakin'  at  Concord 
one  day. 

"  Dey  took  me  ter  de  lock-up  an'  put  me 
In  er  Iron  cell  an'  it  wuz  late  In  de  day  'fo' 
I  knowed  er  thing.  Den  I  waked  up  an' 
looked  'round  me.  I  seed  niggers  In  all  de 
cells,  an'  mos'  uv  dem  had  sore  heads.  Dey 
had  been  tryin'  to  git  In  de  White  House. 
I  cried  des  la'k  er  chile  an'  wish  dat  I  wuz 
back  at  Concord  wid  de  people  dat  I  know. 


78  Tar  Heel  Tales 

I  imagined  dat  I  seed  all  de  good  fo'ks  here. 

"  Early  de  nex'  momin'  de  bossman  uv  dc 
place  come  to  me  an'  say,  '  Ef  you'll  git  outen 
dis  town  des  as  fas'  as  you  kin  hustle,  we'll 
let  you  go.  A  gem'man  lef  er  ticket  home 
fer  you.     Take  it  an'  git ! ' 

"  Dat  sho'  was  sweet  music  to  my  ears.  I 
wuz  ready  to  go  right  den.  I  went  out  de  do' 
an'  almos'  skip  to  de  depot. 

"  Thank  Gawd  dat  de  ole  nigger's  back 
home  ergin.  Dat's  where  he's  goin'  ter  stay. 
Dem  niggers  what  want  to  go  to  de  White 
House  'ceptions  kin  go,  but  give  me  my  ole 
f ryin'  pan,  cr  big  fat  'possum,  a  peck  uv  taters 
an'  er  pint  uv  gravy.  Dat's  what  suits  dis 
nigger.  I  ain't  hankerin'  arter  shakin'  no- 
budy's  han'." 


Preparing  for  the   Guest. 


AND  THE  SIGNS  FAILED  NOT 


^^OHHOO,  shhoo,  shhoo,  you  good-for- 
kJ  nothing  thing,  we  don't  want  any 
company  to-day,"  shouted  the  large,  ruddy- 
faced  lady  of  the  Parks  Big  House,  to  a  hand- 
some, red  and  black  game  cock  that  jumped 
upon  the  walk  In  front  of  the  porch,  flapped 
his  glossy  wings  and  started  to  crow. 

"  Who  you  reckon's  comin'  here  dis  time 
uv  de  week,  an'  we  so  busy,  Miss  Jule?" 
asked  old  Matt  Miller,  the  family  servant, 
as  she  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
from  the  kitchen,  on  her  way  to  the  well,  car- 
rying two  water  buckets,  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  to  her  elbows,  showing  a  pair  of  lithe, 
black  arms,  well  muscled  and  hard. 

"  I  don't  know.  Matt,  but  that  rooster  per- 
sists in  crowing  in  front  of  the  door,  and 
that  Is  a  mighty  good  sign  that  some  stranger's 
coming  for  a  meal,"  declared  Miss  Jule. 

79 


So  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Yes'm,  an'  I'se  done  drap  de  dish  rag 
twice  dis  mornin'  an'  dat's  er  sign  dat  don't 
fail,  an'  de  pusson  whut  comes  is  mos'  lakly 
to  be  hongry,  too. 

"  Maybe  hits  de  nev/ preacher?  " 

*'  No,  Matt,  I  don't  think  so,  he's  never 
said  anything  about  coming,  and  he  will  go 
and  see  all  of  the  elders  and  deacons  before 
he  starts  around  among  the  common  folks. 
He  hasn't  been  to  see  the  Graves  yet,  and 
they  are  pillars  in  Sharon." 

**  Humph,  Miss  Jule,  you  don't  know  dese 
young  preachers  lak  I  doos.  Hit  ain't  de 
elders  an'  de  deekins  deyer  arter  so  much  as 
hit's  de  mens  wid  de  money. 

"  Leastwise,  dat  de  way  hit  Is  wid  our  peo- 
ple, an'  human  natur'  is  'bout  de  same  whether 
de  skin's  white  or  black.  I  knows  dis,  ef 
you  hain't  gut  de  spondulicks  you  don't  git  de 
preacher. 

"  Ef  hit  ain't  de  rocks  hit's  de  weemens  dat 
de  young  preachers  Is  gut  on  deyer  minds 
dese  days.     Dat  sho'  is  de  truf. 

"  Dat  young  feller,  he's  done  heered  dat 
Marse  George's  gut  las'  year's  cotton  in  de 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  8 1 

shed,  dat  ain't  never  been  sold,  an'  he's  des 
'bout  comin'  to  spend  de  day." 

*'  What  about  our  new  preacher,  Matt,  do 
you  like  his  looks?"  asked  the  lady  of  the 
house,  as  she  knitted. 

*'  I  ain't  seed  'im  right  good,  but  I  don't 
lak  de  lef  eye." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  it?  " 

"  Yo'  maw,  Miss  Nancy,  an'  she  wuz  er 
pow'ful  smart  'oman  too,  used  to  say: 
*  Mat,  don't  you  marry  no  cock-eye  man,  ef 
you  do  you'llgit  cheated.'  " 

"And  you  believe  it?" 

"  'Cose  I  do.  Look  at  Marse  George,  one 
uv  de  bestes'  horse  traders  in  dese  parts ! 
Whut  do  he  say  ?  '  Don't  buy  no  white  foot 
horse  or  trade  wid  er  cock-eye  man.' 

"  But,  Miss  Jule,  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  ergin 
yo'  preacher.  I  don't  lak  to  think  bad  'bout 
de  men  uv  de  pulpit,  but  I  ain't  gut  de  faith 
dat  I  used  to  have.  No,  chile,  de  older  I 
gits  de  wuss  I  is." 

Matt  moved  on,  leaving  her  mistress  to 
think  over  what  she  had  said. 

Mrs.   George   Parks,   although  corpulent, 


82  Tar  Heel  Tales 

and  misshapen,  had  pretty  white  hands,  neat 
and  dainty  feet  and  small,  aristocratic  ankles, 
pretty  soft,  iron-gray  hair,  and  bright,  keen 
gray  eyes.  Her  every  feature  bespoke  a 
warm  heart,  a  gentle  and  refined  nature.  As 
she  sat  there  that  morning,  in  her  own  low 
rocking  chair,  knitting  away  at  a  cotton  sock, 
she  was  a  perfect  picture  of  health  and  hap- 
piness. She  had  put  her  house  in  shape  for 
the  day,  fed  the  early  biddies  just  from  the 
eggshells,  looked  over  her  garden  and  was 
resting  on  the  long,  cool  front  porch,  over- 
spread by  the  limbs  of  two  magnificent  white 
oaks. 

After  Matt  had  drawn  the  water  and  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen,  Charlie,  the  baby  boy 
of  the  Parks  home,  came  running  in  from  the 
shop  with  a  hoe  in  his  hand,  and  dashed  up 
the  steps,  intending  to  go  through  the  house 
to  the  field  in  the  rear,  but  was  halted  by  his 
mother,  who  said  sharply:  "  Child,  don't 
bring  that  hoe  in  here,  it  is  bad  luck  to  carry 
a  hoe  in  a  house  where  one  lives." 

The  boy  hurried  back  down  the  steps  and 
around  the  house. 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  83 

The  reader  may  imagine  that  he  Is  at  this 
prosperous  country  home,  in  the  Piedmont  re- 
gion of  the  South,  where  cotton  is  king,  and 
hog  and  hominy  the  staff  of  life,  and  view  the 
scene. 

It  Is  springtime,  a  beautiful  fair  morning 
In  early  June,  and  the  grandfather  clock,  one 
that  had  been  In  the  family  for  several  gen- 
erations, had  just  struck  nine.  Mrs.  Parks 
was  at  peace  with  the  world.  She  had  helped 
to  red  up  the  house,  to  feed  the  poultry,  strain 
the  fresh  milk,  churn  and  put  away  the  but- 
ter and  written  a  letter  to  her  oldest  son,  who 
was  off  at  college. 

Old  Matt,  who  served  as  cook,  chamber- 
maid, milkmaid,  dairymaid,  and  errand  run- 
ner, was  preparing  dinner. 

*'  Have  you  put  on  your  greens.  Matt?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Parks,  throwing  back  her  head, 
and  calling  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Yes'm,  long  'go,"  responded  the  faithful 
Matt. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  killing  a 
chicken?  Do  you  reckon  we'll  have  com- 
pany?" 


84  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Des  as  shore,  Miss  Jule,  as  I'se  llvin'; 
Pse  done  drap  de  dish  rag  ergin.  Ef  I  wuz 
you,  I'd  be  skeered  to  risk  it." 

"  Well,  I  think  so  myself,  for  George  took 
butter  this  morning  when  he  had  butter  on  his 
plate,  and  that  is  a  pretty  sure  sign.  When 
the  rooster  crows  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
the  cook  drops  the  dish  rag  three  times,  and 
the  head  of  the  family  takes  butter  when  he's 
got  butter,  all  of  the  signs  point  one  way. 

*'  I  expect  you  had  better  call  Charlie  and 
catch  that  little  red  rooster  that  stays  in  the 
Irish  potato  patch,  back  of  the  garden." 

Mrs.  Parks  continued  to  knit,  and  ponder. 
Her  mind  went  from  one  thing  to  another. 
One  moment  she  was  thinking  of  her  dear 
Tom,  who  would  soon  be  home  from  the  Uni- 
versity, and  the  next  of  Ned,  who  had  gone  to 
Charlotte  to  get  a  new  mowing  machine. 
Most  of  her  thoughts  were  of  her  children. 

Matt  and  Charlie  chased  the  little  red 
rooster  through  Marse  George's  prize  cotton 
patch,  under  the  barn  and  out  again,  over  the 
fence,  around  the  carriage  house,  finally  hem- 
ming  him   In   a   corner   and   catching  him. 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  85 

Matt  put  him  in  a  pie  and  Charlie  went  to 
carry  water  to  the  field  hands,  in  response  to 
Big  John  Ardrey's  call:  "Sonny,  sonny, 
sonny,  ain't  you  gwine  to  fetch  de  ole  nigger 
no  water  to-day  ?     He's  so  thirsty !  " 

The  cotton  and  corn  were  beginning  to 
show  well  in  the  more  fertile  fields.  Every 
available  man  and  woman  on  the  place  was 
at  work,  either  plowing  or  hoeing,  thinning 
the  young  truck  to  a  stand,  and  making  war 
on  General  Green,  the  farmer's  faithful 
enemy.  Many  fields  were  green  with  waving 
grain.  Here  and  there  wheat  was  turning 
yellow  and  would  soon  be  ready  for  the 
reaper. 

To  the  right  of  the  Big  House,  far  out  in 
the  twenty-four  acre  field,  eight  plows,  drawn 
by  as  many  sturdy  mules,  still  thin  from  hard 
spring  plowing,  breaking  lands,  and  brown 
from  the  first  scorching  rays  of  the  sun, 
manned  by  lusty  negroes,  black  and  glossy 
from  eating  rich  Western-grown  meat,  were 
going,  running  around  the  cotton,  thinned  to 
a  stand. 


86  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Lawdy,  lawdy,  lawdy,  lawdy, 
It's  almos'  pay  day,  pay  day, 
An'  I'se  gwine  to  git  my  honey  er  hat," 

sang  Jerry,  a  loud-mouthed,  animated  young 
negro,  who  plowed  Kit,  a  four-year-old  mule, 
fifteen  hands  high,  and  valued  by  Squire 
Parks  at  one-seventy-five.  ,  There  was  no  me- 
ter to  his  song,  but  it  sounded  well  to  him, 
and  the  neighbors  for  two  miles  around  could 
hear  it. 

"  Listen,  Miss  Jule,"  said  Matt,  to  Mrs. 
Parks,  who  had  gone  to  the  kitchen  to  see 
about  dinner.  "  Dat  big  mouf  Jerry  can't 
keep  quiet. 

"  Hear  'im  singin'  'bout  his  honey? 

"  He  rakes  'roun'  all  night,  an'  hollers  all 
day  'bout  his  honey?  He  better  be  givin' 
dat  Runt  somefin',  dat  chile  uv  Mary's." 

"  Is  that  his  child.  Matt?" 

"  'Cose  hit's  his'n. 

"  An'  he  ain't  never  as  much  as  give  it  a 
moufful  uv  nothin' — no,  not  nary  mouf- 
f  ul  I 

"  De  po'  little  chile  des  runs  'roun'  while 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  87 

Mary  wuks,  des  lak  It  wuz  er  dog  or  hog.  I 
ain't  never  seed  sich  neglect.  But  Mary 
can't  hep  It  now;  she's  gut  to  wuck  fur  er 
llvin'." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know  that  Runt  was 
Jerry's  child  before." 

"  Yon  he  is  now !  "  exclaimed  Matt,  as  she 
turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  toward 
the  hands,  who  were  hoeing  cotton  in  the  Clay 
Field,  back  of  the  orchard. 

"  Yes'm,  Mary's  des  hoein'  an'  wuckin'  lak 
er  dog,  an'  keepin'  dat  chile,  while  Jerry's 
spendin'  money  on  dat  yaller  Rose  whut  come 
here  wid  dat  nigger  Rufus,  who  de  pleesmens 
tuck  back  to  town  an'  put  on  de  chain-gang 
fur  stealln'  er  cow. 

"  Po'  Runt,  he  don't  git  much  'tenshun ! 
Dey  never  thought  enough  uv  'Im  to  name 
'im,  an'  de  foks,  seein'  how  little  he  wuz, 
called  'im  '  Runt '  an'  '  Runt '  he  is.  Ef  any- 
budy  wanted  him  dey  coul'  steal  'Im  an'  no- 
budy  woul'  make  much  fuss  'bout  It.  Ef  It 
wuz  slavry  time  ergin,  an'  Ole  Brickhouse  Jim 
wuz  llvin',  he'd  git  'Im  'fo'  Sadday  night. 
Mary  tote's  'im  to  de  fiel'  in  de  mornin'  an' 


88  Tar  Heel  Tales 

puts  Mm  down  in  de  shade  uv  er  tree  an'  lets 
'Im  stay  dere." 

This  same  little  negro,  four  years  old,  bow- 
legged,  flat-nosed,  onery-looking  and  dirty, 
clad  in  a  single  garment,  which  was  torn,  and 
without  buttons  to  hold  it  In  place,  was  at 
that  very  moment  rambling  about  In  the  weeds 
In  the  orchard,  far  from  his  mother,  who, 
with  a  dozen  other  hands,  were  chopping  cot- 
ton. If  a  dog  or  a  calf  or  anything  else  came 
along  and  toppled  him  over  he  cried  until  he 
was  exhausted,  fell  asleep  and  waked  up  re- 
freshed. No  one  seemed  to  love  or  care  for 
him ;  he  weeded  his  own  row. 

Taking  pity  on  him,  on  various  and  sundry 
occasions.  Miss  Jule  had  sent  Charhe  with 
buttered  biscuits  or  pieces  of  pie  to  the  four- 
year-old.  Although  Runt  was  afraid  of 
Charlie,  who  often  slipped  up  behind  him, 
turned  his  little  shirt  over  his  head  and  ran, 
he  was  thankful  for  the  hand-outs,  without 
knowing  just  where  they  came  from.  If  he 
saw  the  white  boy  coming  he  wanted  to  hide, 
but  was  afraid  to  lest  he  miss  a  sweet  morsel 
for  his  tongue. 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  89 

*'  Look,  Miss  Jule,  don't  it  beat  all  how 
boys  do?  See  Charlie  teasing  dat  po'  little 
nigger,"  old  Matt  would  say. 

*'  Charlie !  Charlie !  You  little  scamp, 
you  !  Quit  worrying  that  child !  "  would  fol- 
low, and  the  youngster  would  laugh  and  run, 
leaving  Runt  to  think  it  over. 

**  Shhoo,  shhoo,  shhoo ! 

*'  There's  that  old  rooster  again,"  said 
Mrs.  Parks,  as  she  turned  and  started  for  the 
front  porch  again. 

*'  We  don't  w^ant  any  company  to-day." 

"  Miss  Jule,  don't  you  speck  you'd  better 
spruce  up  er  little,  so  ef  de  preacher  do  come 
you'll  be  ready  fur  'im?  " 

*'  I  will  put  on  my  new  dress,  I  want 
George  to  see  it  anyhow,  and  I  can  take  it 
off  after  dinner  if  nobody  comes." 

"  I  speck  you  better." 

After  the  mistress  of  the  house  had  resumed 
her  seat  on  the  porch,  having  arrayed  herself, 
in  her  pretty  calico  frock.  Matt  called  out: 
"  Miss  Jule,  who  is  dat  comin'  'roun'  de  fieP 
on  dat  big  white  boss?  " 


90  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  It  looks  like  Capt.  Brown,  on  old  Roy," 
said  Mrs.  Parks. 

"  Yes'm,  hit  do,  but  he  woul'n't  be  comin' 
here  fur  dinner,  'ceptin'  Miss  Jane's  erway," 
declared  Matt. 

Sure  enough.  It  was  Capt.  Brown,  and  he 
rode  up  to  the  front  gate. 

"  The  tip  of  the  day  to  you,  Mrs.  Parks !  '* 
said  the  gallant  fellow,  lifting  his  hat. 

*'  Good  morning,  Capt.  Brown ;  won't  you 
light?" 

"  No,  thank  you;  I  haven't  time." 

"  You  all  well  ?  " 

"  We're  up  an'  about,  but  I'm  not  feeling 
well.  I  have  had  a  pain  in  my  head  for  sev- 
eral days." 

"  Listen  at  Miss  Jule,"  said  old  Matt  to 
herself,  as  she  peeped  around  the  honey- 
suckle vine,  at  the  end  of  the  porch  to  catch 
what  was  said.  "  I  ain't  never  seed  her  look 
better  nor  puttier." 

"  How  are  you  all,  Capt.  Brown?  " 

*'  Just  tollerbly  well,  only;  the  old  woman 
Is  grunting  a  little  this  morning." 

"  Which  way  Is  the  'Squire?  " 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  91 

*'  He's  In  the  Clay  Field,  back  of  the  house, 
where  the  hoe  hands  are  at  work." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Mrs.  Marler  to- 
day?" 

"  No,  but  Sam  came  by  there  last  night, 
late,  on  his  way  from  the  post  office,  and  Reu- 
ben told  him  that  she  was  no  better.  I  guess 
she's  In  a  right  bad  way." 

"  Yes,  poor  woman,  she's  been  a  great  suf- 
ferer for  a  long  time.  I  have  been  wanting 
to  go  to  see  her,  but  the  stock  Is  busy  now,  and 
then,  too,  I  have  not  felt  like  riding.  I  get 
dizzy  every  time  I  get  In  a  buggy." 

"  You  heard  about  Mrs.  BUI  McGregor, 
Mrs.  Parks?" 

"  No ;  is  it  a  boy  or  girl  ?  " 

"  A  ten-pound  boy." 

"  That's  fine !     Five  girls  and  three  boys. 

"  Tell  Mollle  to  come  over.  She  needn't 
wait  on  me.  I'm  getting  too  old  to  travel 
about  much." 

"  Thank  you.     You  and  George  come. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  see  the  old  man  on  a  lit- 
tle business;  I  will  just  ride  around  there." 

Capt.  Brown  and  Squire  Parks  were  the 


92  Tar  Heel  Tales 

best  of  neighbors  and  friends.  Both  were 
influential  in  political  affairs  and  substantial 
business  men.  That  morning  they  talked 
over  a  private  matter  and  Capt.  Brown  turned 
and  went  back. 

Dinner  time  came  and  no  company  arrived. 
The  greens,  the  chicken  and  strawberry  pies 
were  all  ready,  but  there  was  no  one  outside 
of  the  family  circle  to  eat  them. 

"  I  don't  believe  In  your  signs,  anyhow," 
declared  Mr.  Parks,  "  for,  this  morning,  as 
I  went  to  the  field,  a  red  bird,  a  pretty  one, 
flew  across  the  road  in  front  of  me,  and  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  that  Is  the  sign  that 
you  are  going  to  see  your  sweetheart,  dressed 
in  her  best  clothes,  and  I  know  I  haven't  seen 
any  sweetheart  to-day." 

*'  O,  yes,  you  is,  Marse  George,"  said 
Matt,  as  she  handed  him  the  greens  for  a  sec- 
ond help. 

"Who?     Where?" 

"  Here  she  Is,  Miss  Jule,  de  onlles'  sweet- 
heart dat  you  ever  had." 

*'  Don't  you  believe  that.  Matt,"  said  Mrs. 
Parks,  fishing  for  a  compliment. 


And  the  Signs  Failed  Not  93 

"  I  guess  you  are  right,  Matt,  and  she's 
got  on  a  new  dress,"  conceded  the  lord  and 
master  of  the  Parks  Big  House. 

Dinner  and  the  hour  of  rest  over,  the  hands 
started  for  the  field.  Everybody,  save  Mary, 
the  mother  of  Runt,  had  gone,  and  she  hunted 
everywhere  for  the  fatherless  waif,  but  could 
not  find  him.  Squire  Parks,  Miss  Jule,  and 
Matt  organized  themselves  into  a  searching 
party,  but  hunt  where  they  would  they  could 
not  find  the  little  negro.  The  big  bell  that 
hung  on  the  red  oak  in  front  of  the  lot  gate 

,  was  sounded,  and  all  the  workmen  came  in, 
knowing  that  the  ringing  of  it  meant  a  gen- 
eral alarm,  and  were  formed  into  groups  and 
sent  to  the  fields  to  look  for  the  missing  child. 
Aunt  Matt  took  a  mirror  and  reflected  the 

,  sun  in  the  w^ell,  thinking  that  he  might  have 
tumbled  in  there.  Every  nook  and  corner 
about  the  barn  and  every  wash,  or  gulley,  or 
weed  patch  about  the  place  was  examined,  but 
no  trace  of  Runt  was  found. 

"  Somebudy  done  tuck  an'  stole  dat  chile," 
said  Matt.     "  Told  you  so.     I  knowed  dat  de 


94  Tar  Heel  Tales 

Lawd  wuz  gwine  to  let  somebudy  have  'Im 
dat  wour  care  fur  'im. 

"  Po'  little  chile,  I  hope  dat  nothin'  ain't 
happen  to  'im." 

For  two  hours  the  hunt  continued.  Mary 
was  wailing  and  shouting  like  one  possessed. 
Jerry,  the  wayward  negro  of  the  plantation, 
was  racing  everywhere,  looking.  When  all 
had  about  concluded  that  the  boy  had  been 
kidnaped.  Miss  Jule,  who  had  become  hot  and 
tired,  moving  about  in  the  broiling  sun,  and 
returned  to  the  house,  discovered  a  pair  of 
little  black,  dirty  feet  sticking  out  from  un- 
der a  large  hall  table  and,  on  making  a  closer 
examination,  found  that  Runt  had  stolen  in, 
crawled  under  the  table  and  gone  to  sleep 
on  the  floor.  Having  put  a  pillow  under  the 
knappy  head  she  notified  the  hunters  and  told 
Mary  to  go  to  her  work  and  leave  the  child 
to  her. 

Matt  was  very  much  disappointed,  for  she 
had  looked  into  the  well  until  she  believed 
that  she  could  see  the  body  of  a  child  on  the 
bottom,  and  when  Miss  Jule  called  she  was 
preparing  to  announce  that  she  had  found  the 


^d  the  Signs  Failed  Not  95 

little  fellow;  but,  after  seeing  the  feet  and 
bowlegs,  as  they  protruded  from  the  table, 
was  convinced  that  she  was  wrong. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Jule,  an*  de  signs  done  come 
true,'*  declared  the  old  darkey.  "  Dat's  de 
hongry  pusson  dat  wuz  comin*;  dat  chile  des 
gut  so  hongry  dat  he  couln't  stand  hit  no 
longer  an'  come  In.     Po'  little  thing." 

**  I  am  glad  he  made  himself  at  home. 
Matt,  I  will  adopt  him." 

"  One  thing.  Miss  Jule,  I  wuz  glad  to  see 
dat  Jerry  lookln'  sad-lak  'bout  his  boy.  He 
may  not  be  so  bad  arter  all.  De  Lawd  put 
good  In  everybudy." 

"  Yes,  and  Jerry  and  Mary  may  marry 
some  day,  and  make  Runt  a  home ;  you  can't 
tell,"  added  Mrs.  Parks. 

Runt  was  treated  as  a  guest  of  the  house. 
He  slept  unmolested  for  an  hour,  and  when 
he  waked  he  was  taken  to  the  kitchen  and 
given  the  best  the  larder  afforded.  For  a 
month  he  remained  there,  waxing  fat  and 
black  and  strong.  Mary  was  delighted  to  be 
rid  of  him  under  the  circumstances. 


g6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  rooster  had  not  given  the  clarion  call 
in  vain. 

One  day  two  weeks  later,  Miss  Jule  sent 
for  Jerry,  and  they  talked  on  the  front  steps. 
The  next  day  the  young  negro  said  to  Squire 
Parks:  "Say,  Marse  George,  I  want's  you 
to  marry  me  an'  Mary.  I'se  done  gut  de 
licenses." 

**  Where  did  you  get  money  to  get  license, 
this  time  of  year?"  asked  the  justice  of  the 
peace. 

"  Miss  Jule  give  it  to  me." 

That  was  the  day  the  signs  failed  not. 


THE  IRISHMAN'S  GAME  COCK 

^  ^A  I  iHAT  was  a  great  day  In  Providence 
X  — when  Paddy  Roark's  bird  out- 
witted Black  John  Smith's  fine  cock,  the 
mighty  Jay  Bird,"  said  the  old  gambler. 
"  That  was  the  end  of  the  world  for  me. 
WeVe  had  no  real  sport  since  that  time; 
the  boys  are  all  good  nowadays." 

Briefly  put,  that  is  the  story  of  the  last 
gambling  bout  of  a  public  nature  in  Provi- 
dence township,  Mecklenburg  county.  The 
day  of  the  great  battle  between  the  fowls  of 
Roark  and  Smith  marks  the  beginning  of  a 
new  era. 

Black  John  Smith,  as  he  was  known  far 
and  near,  on  account  of  his  swarthy  complex- 
ion, was  among  the  last  of  his  kind  in  the 
Southern  states  that  embrace  the  Piedmont 
region.  He  and  his  sort  had  their  day  just 
after  the  civil  war,  when  every  community  in 

97 


98  Tar  Heel  Tales 

Dixie  was  in  a  state  of  confusion,  and  horse 
racing,  cock  fighting,  wrestling  and  fighting 
matches  were  common.  Smith  was  one  of 
the  boys  —  a  jolly,  good  fellow,  who  liked 
a  good  time,  and  if  he  could  not  have  it  one 
way  he  would  another.  He  did  not  belong 
to  the  Southern  aristocracy  of  the  age;  his 
blood  was  tainted,  but  he  was  a  man  of  fine 
sense,  never-failing  courage,  and  handsome 
appearance.  His  family  record  being  a  little 
off  color  made  him  a  social  outcast  and  his 
associates  were  inferiors.  Life  to  him  was 
just  what  he  made  it,  and  he  lived  like  a  lord. 
His  home.  The  Elms,  the  former  residence  of 
Capt.  Jim  Davis,  the  largest  slave  owner  in 
the  southern  section  of  the  county,  was  the 
rendezvous  of  second-class  sportsmen,  who 
assembled  there  to  drink,  revel  and  try  their 
brawn. 

Being  industrious  and  a  first-rate  farmer, 
Black  John,  who  never  owned  land,  but  rented 
the  best  to  be  had,  always  had  plenty  to  eat 
and  drink  around  him.  His  corn  bread  and 
butter  milk,  pig  jowl  and  kraut,  hog  and  hom- 
iny, wine  and  brandy,  all  home-made,  were  of 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cock  99 

the  best  In  the  land,  and,  liberal  to  a  fault,  he 
was  never  without  friends. 

If  any  man  were  out  hunting  for  trouble 
for  himself,  his  dog,  his  rooster,  or  anything 
else,  he  could  find  It  at  The  Elms  when  Black 
John  Smith  flourished  there.  Rural  ath- 
letes, bullies,  owners  of  game  cocks,  and  rac- 
ing horses  met  with  him  on  off  days  for  a  big 
time. 

Among  those  who  foregathered  at  his  home 
were  dissipated  landlords  of  the  community, 
but,  being  of  a  higher  social  strata,  the  bet- 
ter citizens  rarely  ever  tarried  at  the  Smith 
hearth  unless  they  were  there  on  business. 

In  the  early  eighties  there  drifted  into 
Providence  one  Paddy  Roark,  an  Irish  arti- 
san, from  where  no  one  ever  knew.  Paddy 
was  a  unique  character  and  the  people  of 
the  good  old  Presbyterian  neighborhood  gave 
him  a  cordial  welcome.  Just  such  a  man  was 
needed.  At  all  times  he  was  affable  and 
jolly  and  made  friends  everywhere.  He  was 
a  handy  man  —  could  do  any  sort  of  turn. 
It  was  "  Paddy  do  this  "  and  "  Paddy  do 
that."     If  a  farmer  needed  a  painter,  a  car- 


loo  Tar  Heel  Tales 

penter,  a  brick  mason,  or  what  not,  Paddy- 
was  the  man.  Truly,  Paddy  was  ''  Dick  and 
the  wheel  in  any  tight  place."  If  the  boys 
and  girls  of  Providence  had  a  frolic  or  a  dance 
he  played  the  fiddle,  or  picked  the  banjo,  or 
sang  Irish  songs.  The  good  housewives  of 
the  community  liked  him,  for  he  could  make 
the  kraut,  salt  the  meat,  cook  fruit  for  pre- 
serves, make  persimmon  and  locust  beer,  or 
take  the  honey  from  the  bee  hive.  In  fact, 
Paddy  was  an  all-round  citizen,  and  so  long 
as  he  behaved  himself  the  good  people  of  the 
community  did  not  worry  about  his  mysterious 
past  or  the  suddenness  of  his  advent  into  that 
bailiwick.  Little  did  they  care,  the  descend- 
ants of  the  signers  of  the  Mecklenburg  Decla- 
ration of  Independence,  If  he  had  killed  an 
Englishman  or  two  In  the  old  country. 

Paddy  Roark  belonged  to  the  social  circle 
of  The  Elms.  He  and  Black  John  Smith 
were  friends,  but  the  Irishman,  being  a  man 
of  keen  wit  and  cleverness,  did  not  like  the 
way  the  lord  of  the  old  Davis  place  towered 
above  his  fellows.  There  sprung  up  a  rivalry 
between  these  popular  idols.     In  a  clash  of 


The  Irishman's  Game  CocK  loi 

Intellects  the  man  from  the  Emerald  Isle  out- 
shone the  native  Tar  Heel.  In  a  test  of 
physical  strength  they  were  pretty  evenly 
matched.  Paddy  was  the  best  boxer,  but 
Black  John  could  throw  him  down  in  a 
wrestle.  Paddy  was  the  only  man  In  the 
Smith  set  that  would  challenge  the  "  Chief 
of  The  Elms." 

It  was  on  a  cold,  drizzly  day  In  September 
and  the  boys  for  several  miles  around  had 
assembled  under  the  Smith  roof  to  discuss 
plans  for  the  fall  and  winter.  Black  John 
sat  In  one  corner  and  Paddy  In  the  other,  In 
front  of  a  big  log  fire.  There  was  a  lull  In 
the  conversation. 

"  A  rooster  Is  the  gamest  thing  on  earth," 
said  Smith. 

"  I  do  not  admit  that  without  proof,"  said 
Paddy. 

"  The  proof  is  at  hand,"  declared  Smith. 
"  Jay  Bird,  my  dominecker  game.  Is  In  the 
yard.  He  is  the  champion  of  the  county  and 
I  will  back  him  against  the  feathered  king- 
dom. He  carries  a  chip  on  his  shoulder  and 
challenges  the  world  every  time  he  crows. 


102  Tar  Heel  Talcs 

He  can  crow  louder,  shriller,  oftener  and 
longer  than  any  chicken  in  seven  states.  I 
can  make  him  come  in  here  and  fight  you." 

About  that  time  the  clarion  call  of  a  rooster 
was  heard. 

"Listen!"  shouted  Black  John.  "He 
says  '  I  can  lick  anything  that  wears  feathers ! ' 

"  I  will  back  him  in  that  declaration." 

Smith  got  up,  opened  the  door  and  yelled: 
"  Jay  Bird,  come  here  and  defend  yourself." 

Before  one  could  say  Jack  Robinson  twice, 
a  beautiful  game  rooster  —  and  there  Is  noth- 
ing prettier  —  came  flying  to  the  house  from 
the  barn.  His  magnificent  head,  as  keen  as 
an  arrow  point,  was  red  with  life,  and  his 
alert  brown  eye  sparkled  with  fire.  His  spurs 
were  long  and  sharp  and  well  set  in  a  pair 
of  splendid  legs.  His  cold,  steady  eye  gave 
him  a  fierce  appearance ;  the  calm,  determined 
stare  of  never-failing  courage,  was  what  made 
adversaries  quail  before  him. 

"  Come  In,  Jay  Bird,  and  get  on  your  mas- 
ter's shoulder,"  was  the  invitation  extended. 
Black  John  was  proud  of  his  cock.  He 
petted  and  groomed  him  dally. 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cocic  103 

*'  Jay  Bird,  they  say  you  can  be  whipped,'* 
said  Smith,  when  the  rooster  lit  upon  his 
shoulder.     "  What  about  it?  " 

Flapping  his  wings,  lifting  his  eagle-head, 
and  crowing.  Jay  Bird  seemed  to  say:  "I 
can  whip  any  rooster  in  the  land." 

"  A  game  rooster  is  proud,  daring  and 
fearless  if  he  comes  of  the  right  stock,"  as- 
serted Black  John.  *'  Courageous  men  or 
dogs  do  not  fight  without  an  excuse,  but  the 
cock  goes  forth  to  hunt  a  foe.  Two  games 
will  meet  far  from  their  own  barnyards  and 
fight  to  the  death,  when  there  is  no  provoca- 
tion for  a  meeting,  much  less  a  fight.  The 
bold,  defiant  spirit  of  their  blood  urges  them 
on.  The  one  hears  the  challenge  of  the 
other  and  accepts  by  going,  running,  flying 
and  crowing,  to  meet  him. 

"  Jay  Bird  is  a  bundle  of  superb  courage, 
and  I  will  pit  him  against  any  two-legged 
fowl." 

*'  I  accept  the  challenge,"  said  Paddy. 
"  Name  the  time  and  the  place  and  I  will  be 
on  hand  with  my  bird.  We  shall  put  up  $25 
a  side  if  you  say  so." 


104  Tar  Heel  Tales 

This  announcement  took  the  breath  from 
the  crowd.  The  money  was  put  up  and  the 
day  fixed. 

The  acceptance  of  Black  John's  challenge 
by  Paddy  Roark  was  the  sensation  of  the 
month.  The  countryside  was  surprised  and 
delighted.  Everybody  was  asking,  "  And 
where  did  Paddy  get  a  chicken  that  can  stand 
up  against  Jay  Bird,  the  wonder?  " 

All  the  answer  that  Paddy  gave  was, 
**  Never  you  moind,  I'll  be  there  at  the  rolght 
tolme,  and  I  will  have  a  folghting  cock  that 
will  swape  the  daeck." 

The  word  was  "  put  out  "  and  traveled 
with  the  wind,  crossing  out  of  Providence  into 
PInevIlle,  Morning  Star,  Sharon  and  Steele 
Creek  townships,  and  Into  Union  county  and 
South  Carolina.  The  coming  contest  was  all 
the  talk,  and  Paddy  Roark  the  hero  of  the 
hour.  If  he  brought  a  fowl  that  could  whip 
Jay  Bird  the  people  of  the  community  stood 
ready  to  give  him  a  vote  of  thanks.  The 
older  persons  of  the  neighborhood  believed 
that  if  Smith  could  be  outdone  he  might  turn 
from  his  evil  ways  and  discontinue  the  par- 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cock  105 

ties  at  his  place.  All  minds  were  on  Paddy, 
who  was  admired,  for  his  consummate  nerve, 
by  men,  women  and  children.  The  small  boy 
longed  to  be  a  man  so  that  he  could  model 
after  Paddy  Roark,  the  Irishman.  When 
Paddy  attended  church  on  Sunday,  which  he 
usually  did,  the  pious  communicants  turned  to 
look  at  him.  He  who  dared  accept  Black 
John  Smith's  challenge  was  a  mighty  man. 

The  last  Saturday  in  October  was  the  day, 
and  Bald  Knob,  near  McAlpine's  creek,  the 
place  for  the  meet. 

Long  before  the  appointed  hour  a  crowd 
began  to  gather  from  three  counties.  Men 
came  twenty  miles  to  witness  the  fight. 

The  woods  that  surrounded  the  open  field 
in  which  the  main  was  to  take  place  were 
alive  with  horses  and  mules,  and  while  the 
beasts  of  burden  whinnied  and  brayed  their 
owners  discussed  the  approaching  event. 
The  mystery  that  surrounded  Paddy  Roark 
and  his  fowl  had  excited  the  quiet  citizens  of 
Providence  as  they  had  not  been  excited  since 
the  days  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan.  John  Smith, 
himself,  looked  pale  and  confused.      Could 


io6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

he  have  done  so  gracefully,  he  would  have 
crawfished,  but  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  such 
a  thing.  He  had  to  stand  to  the  rack. 
Bright  and  early  he  was  at  the  right  place. 
Jay  Bird  had  crowed  until  he  was  hoarse. 
He  knew  that  something  was  in  the  wind  and, 
from  the  attention  he  received,  that  he  was  to 
play  a  part.  Hundreds  of  people  called  at 
his  cage  to  see  him.  He  was  in  fine  form 
and  looked  every  inch  a  fighter. 

Paddy  Roark,  who  had  not  been  in  his 
usual  haunts  for  several  days,  had  not  shown 
up.  The  friends  of  Smith  were  saying  that 
the  Irishman  had  fluked,  but  Paddy  had  back- 
ers aplenty,  who  assured  one  and  all  that  he 
would  be  on  time.  Fifteen  minutes  before 
the  hour  arrived  Paddy  was  not  in  sight.  At 
ten  of  ten  a  shout  broke  on  the  eastern  out- 
skirts of  the  mob.  Paddy,  riding  a  gray 
mule,  came  galloping  over  the  hill,  from  to- 
wards Matthews,  carrying  a  sack  over  his 
shoulder.  As  he  dismounted  from  his  nag 
an  outburst  of  applause  greeted  him. 

It  was,  "  Hurrah,  for  Paddy  Roark,  and 
his  bird  I" 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cock  107 

*'  Come  on  with  your  critter,  whatever  It 
be,"  responded  the  Smithites,  "  and  Jay  Bird 
will  knock  the  filling  out  of  himl  " 

At  this  time  the  entire  hillside  was  covered 
with  a  surging,  wild-eyed  human  mass,  each 
person  seeking  to  get  where  he  or  she  could 
see.  Above  the  tumult  and  the  shouting,  the 
shrill  cry  of  Jay  Bird  could  be  heard,  assert- 
ing, "  I  can  whip  any  cock  in  the  land." 

Roark  was  literally  mobbed  by  his  friends, 
who  asked :  *'  Paddy,  have  you  brought  your 
rooster?  " 

*'  What  kind  of  a  beast  is  he?  " 
Can  he  do  Jay  Bird?  " 
We're  betting  on  him." 

*'  Fetch  him  out,  the  time  is  most  up." 

In  the  midst  of  this  turmoil  and  chaos 
Paddy  Roark  was  cool,  calm  and  deliberate. 
He  smoked  his  pipe,  smiled  and  told  the  boys 
that  they  might  stake  all  they  had  on 
"  Jerry." 

His  mule  tied,  Paddy  started  for  the  bat- 
tle-ground with  his  tow  sack  on  his  back;  he 
would  not  show  his  bird  to  any  one,  but  the 
bulk  in  one  corner  of  the  bag  was  encourag- 


io8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

ing.  His  supporters  were  cheering  and  sing- 
ing, "  We'll  hang  Jay  Bird  on  a  sour  apple 
tree." 

As  the  hour  hand  moved  toward  ten  the 
lord  of  The  Elms  and  the  Irish  carpenter 
faced  each  other,  the  one  holding  a  rooster 
and  the  other,  the  mouth  of  a  bag. 

"  Clear  out !  Stand  back !  Give  the  gen- 
tlemen room !  **  shouted  the  officer  of  the 
day. 

Paddy  did  not  seem  to  be  in  any  hurry. 
No  one  knew  what  his  bag  contained  for  all 
was  quiet  inside. 

"  That's  the  deadest  rooster  ever,"  yelled 
someone  in  derision.  "  He's  asleep.  Wake 
up,  birdie,  day's  breaking!  " 

Paddy  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  satis- 
fied with  himself  and  his  **  boird." 

"  All's  ready!  "  shouted  the  umpire. 

"  When  I  say  '  three  '  let  them  go !  " 

Paddy  took  hold  of  the  bottom  of  the 
sack  and  made  ready  to  empty  the  contents. 

The  spectators  at  this  juncture  pressed 
against  the  ropes  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to 
see  Paddy's  bird.     When  the  word  was  given. 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cock  109 

Jerry,  a  large,  Muscovy  drake,  web-footed 
and  clumsy,  dropped  Into  the  arena.  The 
friends  of  Paddy  were  struck  speechless,  and 
the  supporters  of  Jay  Bird  laughed  boister- 
ously, treating  the  affair  as  a  joke,  but  Jay 
Bird,  and  Jerry  were  serious,  and  went  to 
sparring  at  each  other. 

Paddy,  too,  was  In  earnest;  knowing  his 
champion  he  said:  "He's  all  roight,  boys. 
All  hell  can't  thrip  him." 

For  a  moment  Jay  Bird  was  disconcerted; 
although  he  had  never  seen  a  drake  before, 
he  did  his  best.  He  had  fought  turkeys,  pea 
fowls  and  guineas,  but  not  ducks.  It  was 
evident  from  the  outset  that  Jerry  knew  what 
he  was  doing.  He  dodged  beautifully  and 
let  the  rooster  pass  over  his  head.  Jay 
Bird's  spurs  would  come  together  above  his 
back  every  time.  The  fighting  was  not  dull. 
Those  who  watched  It  felt  that  there  were 
surprises  ahead  for  the  cock.  Jerry  was  bid- 
ing his  time,  and  It  came  by  and  by.  Having 
knocked  off  the  wire  edge,  without  as  much 
as  touching  the  drake,  Jay  Bird  settled  down 
to  a  steady  lick.     That  was  just  what  Jerry 


flio  Tar  Heel  Tales 

had  hoped  for;  then  he  became  more  aggres- 
sive. Sallying  forth,  ducking  and  dodging  a 
little,  he  caught  his  adversary  by  the  back  of 
the  neck.  Jay  Bird  pulled  back,  but  Jerry 
did  not  turn  loose  until  he  had  kicked  him  in 
the  breast  and  beaten  him  over  the  head  with 
his  heavy  wings. 

The  pounding  made  the  rooster  furious, 
and  he  flew  at  his  antagonist  with  more  vim 
than  ever,  and  that  time  the  aim  was  accurate, 
the  blow  falling  on  the  drake's  head. 

It  was  Jerry's  turn  to  be  angry.  He 
stepped  back  a  step  or  two  and  prepared  to 
meet  Jay  Bird.  The  chicken  went  with  a 
rush,  half  running  and  half  flying,  and  as  he 
rose  to  strike,  the  duck  fastened  him  in  the 
throat,  brought  him  down  and  thumped  him 
severely. 

The  crowd  was  wild,  but  the  battle  had 
been  so  fast  and  furious  and  full  of  surprises 
that  all  looked  on  in  silence,  waiting  to  see  the 
next  move. 

At  this  stage  of  the  game  the  drake  did  a 
wonderful  feat.  He  ran  into  Jay  Bird,  took 
a  firm  hold  upon  his  neck,  rose  and  flew,  like 


The  Irishman's  Game  Cock        iii 

a  hawk.  The  trick  was  done  so  quickly  that 
the  engrossed  onlookers  did  not  realize  for  a 
second  what  had  happened.  The  big  duck, 
with  Jay  Bird  In  his  mouth,  was  going  toward 
the  creek.  The  crowd  whirled  about  and 
hurried  after  him. 

"  It's  all  over  now,"  Paddy  cried;  "  Jerry 
will  drown  Jay  Bird  In  Black  John's  swim- 
ming hole." 

When  the  boys  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the 
water,  Jerry  was  catching  tadpoles,  having 
sunk  the  body  of  his  foe. 

Black  John  Smith  never  recovered  from 
the  humiliating  defeat  and  death  of  his  roos- 
ter.    The  beginning  of  the  end  had  come. 


STRANGE  VISION  OF  ARABELLA 

THE  colored  people  within  a  radius  of 
twenty-five  miles  of  Reding  Springs 
camp  ground.  Union  county,  congregate  there 
once  a  year,  generally  in  August,  after  the 
crops  are  laid  by,  for  a  big  religious  revival. 
At  Reding  Springs  they  are  far  removed  from 
white  people,  and  surrounded  by  forests. 
They  can  camp  out,  eat,  drink,  preach  and 
sing  to  their  hearts'  content  without  molest- 
ing anyone.  Sometimes  the  meetings  are 
brought  to  sudden  conclusions  by  free-for-all 
fights,  started  by  bullies,  with  rocks,  pistols 
and  razors,  but  this  is  an  unusual  thing  for 
the  good  darkies  of  that  section  strive  to  keep 
down  any  unlawful  disturbances.  Old  Satan, 
shrewd  and  alert  always,  enters  the  home  of 
God's  people  occasionally  and  makes  mis- 
chief. So  it  is  at  Reding  Springs  now  and 
then. 

For  almost  a  half  century  Reding  Springs 

112 


Arabella  the  Day  After. 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella        113 

has  been  a  popular  camping  place  for  the  ne- 
groes of  the  Sandy  Ridge  region.  They 
gather  there  and  remain  for  weelcs,  worship- 
ing according  to  their  lights.  Thousands  of 
persons  camp  there  during  the  meeting. 
They  make  the  neighborhood  dark  with  their 
presence  and  resound  with  their  music. 

The  Reding  Springs  meetings  are  not  for 
the  city-bred  negro,  with  his  lofty  airs  and 
college  training,  but  for  the  country  negro. 
There  he  feels  at  home,  where  he  goes  once 
every  twelve  months  to  repent  of  his  sins, 
give  in  his  experience  and  shout  until  weary. 
The  religious  enthusiast  can  sing,  preach, 
pray  or  participate  In  any  other  seemly  way 
in  the  services  without  restrictions.  The  par- 
son reads  his  text,  closes  the  Bible,  and 
preaches  from  memory.  He  gives  out  the 
hymns  line  at  a  time,  and  leads  in  the  sing- 
ing, young  and  old,  saint  and  sinner  joining 
to  make  the  welkin  ring,  no  one  feeling  con- 
strained to  curb  his  voice,  the  more  force  ap- 
plied the  better,  volume,  not  quality,  being 
demanded. 

Dear  reader,  if  you  have  followed  me  so 


114  Tar  Heel  Tales 

far,  don't  turn  back  now,  for  it  is  my  purpose 
to  tell  you  about  Arabella  Simpkins,  the 
prophetess  of  the  Reding  Springs  section. 
She  was  the  sage  of  the  community.  The 
negroes  feared  her,  and  their  fear  was  of  the 
sort  that  made  them  want  to  get  closer  to 
her. 

Reding  Springs  negroes  had  cause  to  fear 
Arabella.  The  troubles  that  she  predicted 
came  true.  She  had  foretold  the  storm  that 
swept  the  harbor  away  in  1882;  the  earth- 
quake that  shook  the  tents  in  1886,  and  the 
bolt  of  lightning  that  set  fire  to  the  church  in 
1898.  She  had  seen  these  in  visions  and  told 
of  them  as  she  shouted  up  and  down  the 
aisles  of  the  camp  grounds.  The  people  had 
learned  from  experience  that  the  predictions 
of  Arabella  came  to  pass;  she  had  won  the 
respect  of  the  leaders,  who  looked  upon  her 
arrival  as  an  omen  for  good  or  bad.  She  had 
never  attended  a  meeting  except  to  deliver 
herself  of  an  abiding  prophecy.  Therefore, 
if  Arabella  appeared  on  the  scene  everybody 
gave  way  to  her  and  listened  with  abated 
breath   for  her  prediction,  which  she  gave 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella        115 

when  the  meeting  was  at  Its  best,  when  ex- 
citement ran  highest.  Before  the  big  negress 
could  perform  effectively,  the  preaching  and 
singing  had  to  be  of  such  a  character  that  the 
hearers  cried  and  wrung  their  hands.  Then, 
with  the  aisles  and  halls  filled  with  shouting 
men  and  women  and  crying  children,  Ara- 
bella sallied  forth  from  her  seat,  humming 
softly,  walling  her  eyes  and  warming  up  as 
she  went. 

It  was  a  hot  day  In  19 —  that  I  went  with 
a  party  of  young  people  to  the  Reding  Springs 
camp  meeting.  We  were  Invited  by  some  of 
the  older  darkles  of  Providence.  It  was  said 
that  Arabella  was  about  due,  as  she  had  not 
been  out  In  several  years,  and,  hence,  a  good 
time  to  go. 

We  arrived  early  Sunday  morning,  looked 
over  the  grounds  and  watched  the  crowds 
gather  from  the  surrounding  country.  I  en- 
joyed the  preliminaries.  I  had  never  seen 
so  many  and  such  a  variety  of  vehicles.  The 
majority  of  the  darkles  came  In  wagons,  sit- 
ting flat  on  the  bottom,  using  wheat  or  oat 
straw  as  a  cushion,  while  others  rode  In  an- 


Ii6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

tiquated  carriages,  buggies  and  two-wheeled 
carts,  some  of  which  were  drawn  by  oxen. 
The  outskirts  of  the  grounds  were  covered 
with  canvas  tents,  where  those  from  a  dis- 
tance lived. 

Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  happened  un- 
til ten  o'clock,  when  I  saw  several  old  men 
and  women,  those  high  in  the  councils  of  the 
church,  looking  and  pointing  down  the  road 
toward  Twelve-Mile  creek.  Going  near,  so 
that  I  could  hear,  I  learned  that  an  old  sister 
had  spied  a  covered  wagon,  and,  as  I  ap- 
proached, she  was  saying:  *' Dat  sho'  is 
Arabella  Simpkins,  and  her  top  wagin,  fur  I 
knows  dat  ole  yaller  mule." 

"  Sister  Blue,"  said  Parson  Honeycutt, 
"  Tm  'clined  to  b'lieve  dat  you  is  kerrect  in  yo' 
diagnosis  uv  de  case,  fur  dat  looks  mighty  lak 
Miss  Simpkins  on  de  front  seat." 

"  I's  sho'  uv  it  now,"  added  Sister  Blue, 
"  fur  dat's  Cassar,  her  ole  man,  drivin' ;  I 
knows  his  derby  hat.  Yes,  sir,  an'  dere  some- 
fin'  on  Arry's  mind.  We  sho'  is  gwine  to 
hear  somefin'  drap  to-day." 

And  so  it  proved. 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella         117 

Arabella  was  on  the  way.  She  and  Caesar 
came  driving  a  sorrel  mule,  whose  mane  and 
tail  needed  trimming. 

A  chill  passed  over  the  crowd  when  it  be- 
came generally  known  that  the  notorious  Ara- 
bella was  arriving.  There  was  not  a  negro 
present  who  would  not  have  given  all  he 
possessed  to  have  been  at  home.  But  every 
one  was  too  superstitious  to  run  away;  that 
would  have  brought  bad  luck.  Therefore, 
with  a  kind  of  fear  that  produces  confidence 
and  brings  hope  the  unhappy  negroes  col- 
lected about  Arabella  and  offered  their  serv- 
ices, but  with  the  air  of  a  judge,  who  had  the 
power  to  sentence  to  prison  or  death  the  en- 
tire crowd,  she  refused  all  proffers  of  help. 
The  mule  unhitched  and  tied  to  a  dogwood 
sprout  she  went  to  the  harbor  and  took  a 
seat  half  way  down  the  middle  pew.  Every 
person  craned  slyly  his  neck  to  see  her.  The 
prophetess  sat,  with  her  arms  folded  across 
her  lap,  silent  and  dignified.  Caesar,  who 
had  escorted  her  in,  seemed  to  be  absorbed  In 
some  profound  thought.  No  one  went  near 
the  pair. 


ii8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  older  men  of  the  congregation  retired 
to  the  amen  comer  and  sat  like  dummies 
waiting  for  the  hour  for  the  sermon  to  begin. 

Everybody  was  wild  with  pent-up  excite- 
ment. There  was  anxiety  in  every  eye. 
Feeling,  though  suppressed,  ran  high. 

Brother  Honeycutt,  trembling  with  emo- 
tion, announced  that  the  ten-thirty  service 
would  begin  with  prayer  and  asked  one  and 
all  to  join  him  in  a  petition  to  the  Lord  for 
a  successful  meeting.  He  fell  upon  his  knees 
and  prayed  long  and  earnestly,  beseeching 
the  Maker  to  stay  the  hand  of  the  evil  one 
and  save  the  Reding  Springs  people  from 
any  great  pending  calamity.  The  fervent 
ones  punctuated  and  punctured  the  prayer 
with  hearty  amens.  Hymns  were  sung  and 
the  sermon  commenced.  At  first  there  was 
nothing  unusual  about  the  services.  They 
were  like  those  of  all  negro  meetings  held  in 
rural  districts,  except  that  the  congregation 
seemed  unusually  quiet.  The  falling  of  a  pin 
upon  the  floor  could  have  been  heard  across 
the  room. 

The  arrival  of  Arabella  had  brought  or- 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella         119 

der.  The  bravest  of  the  rowdies  would  not 
have  dared  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  that 
meeting.  A  most  pious  and  respectful  body 
of  worshippers  it  was! 

Along  toward  the  latter  part  of  the  ser- 
mon Parson  Honeycutt  warmed  up  to  his  sub- 
ject and  spoke  with  force  and  feeling,  pictur- 
ing the  scenes  of  judgment  day,  when  all 
would  be  begging  Peter  for  admittance  to  the 
Holy  Land.  His  story  and  enthusiasm  were 
calculated  to  touch  the  hardest-hearted  sin- 
ner. As  he  moved  on,  swinging,  half  speak- 
ing and  half  singing,  the  audience  became 
more  and  more  interested.  As  he  swayed  to 
and  fro  behind  the  pulpit  his  hearers  swung 
in  sympathy.     In  conclusion  he  sung: 

"  De  ole  time  religion  is  good  enough  for 

me, 
It  wuz  good  enough  for  Paul  and  Silas, 
An'  it's  good  enough  for  me." 

The  entire  congregation  chimed  in  and  sang 
with  spirit  if  not  understanding. 

It    was    at   this    juncture    that    an    over- 


I20  Tar  Heel  Talcs 

wrought  sister,  singing  and  crying  at  the  top 
of  her  voice,  "  an'  it's  good  enough  fer  me," 
rushed  Into  the  aisle,  clapping  her  hands,  and 
shouting. 

The  meeting  was  getting  right  then  for 
Elder  Brown,  a  man  of  piety  and  reverence, 
cried  out:     *'  Dat's  It,  sister,  tell  It  to  'em!  '* 

A  half-dozen  women  and  two  men  joined 
the  first  shouter. 

"  An'  It's  good  enough  fer  me,"  yelled  the 
preacher,  slapping  his  big  hands  together; 
*'  come  on,  brethren  an'  sistern,  an'  jine  de 
moaners !  " 

Four-fifths  of  the  congregation  kept  an  eye 
on  Arabella,  knowing  that  It  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  time  until  she  would  come  forward 
with  a  swing  and  a  whoop,  and  tell  what  she 
had  seen. 

The  eager  throng  did  not  have  to  wait 
long,  for  Arabella  was  eager  to  get  out,  and 
deliver  her  message.  Laying  aside  her  hat 
and  veil  she  waltzed  out,  humming  softly, 
and  sweetly.  In  a  melodious  voice,  "  An'  I 
seed  er  vision,  er  vision,  er  vision !  " 

"  I  tole  you  so,   honey,   an'   she's   gwine 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella         121 

to  tell  it,"  shouted  Uncle  Jerry  Howard,  one 
of  the  class  leaders. 

As  she  rose  I  got  a  good  look  at  Arabella, 
and  I  was  very  much  impressed  with  her  mas- 
culine features.  She  weighed  about  225 
pounds,  was  large  of  bone,  muscular  and 
black.  She  entered  the  aisle  reeling  and 
rocking. 

"  Clar  dc  way  dere,"  said  Parson  Honey- 
cutt,  "  an'  let  Miss  Simpkins  pass !  " 

"  It  sho'  is  de  same  ole  Arabella,"  declared 
Class  Leader  Jones,  "  an'  she's  gut  trouble 
on  her  mind  des  as  sho'  as  you's  born'd. 

"  Come  on.  Sister  Simpkins,  an'  don't  keep 
us  in  dis  agony!  Tell  de  truf  as  you  see  it! 
Tell  it  an'  let  us  prepare  fer  de  wust!  " 

"  Dis  mornin',"  sang  Arabella,  "  as  I  wuz 
er  comin'  er  long-er  de  road,  I  seed  er  vision, 
er  vision,  er  vision." 

"Tell  it,  sister;  don't  keep  back  nothin'. 
What  wuz  it  you  seed?  "  came  from  the  amen 
comer. 

"  Yes,  Brer  Honeycutt,  des  as  I  started,  an' 
as  I  wuz  comin'  down  de  road-er,  I  seed  er 
vision,  er  vision,  er  vision !  " 


1122  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Yes,  Lawd!     Tell  It  all,  sister!     What 
did  you  see?  " 

"  An'  I  looked  back-er,  an'  seed  it  ergln- 
er." 

"  Come  on  wid  It,  sister!     Tell  It  all!  '' 

"  An'  ft  had-er  long  tall-er.  Yes,  Lawd, 
an'  dat  I  did-er!  " 

*'  Come  on,  honey,  what  wuz  It  you 
seed?" 

By  this  time  everybody  else  had  quit  shout- 
ing; Arabella  had  the  floor  to  herself.  Every 
neck  was  craned  and  every  ear  open  to  get 
what  she  said. 

"  An'  I  look  back-er,  an'  I  seed  dat  It  had 
er  head-er,  er  head-er,  er  head-er!  " 

*^What  den,  chile?" 

"An'  er  long  body-er,  body-er,  body-er! 
An'  legs-er,  fo'  long  legs-er.  Yes,  yes,  chil- 
lun,  an'  fo'  legs-er!  " 

While  this  was  going  on  I  could  not  keep 
my  eyes  off  of  Parson  Honeycutt,  the  large, 
strlklng-looking  preacher,  who  was  very  su- 
perstitious. I  was  afraid  he  would  go  Into 
convulsions.  His  eyes  were  stretched,  his 
nostrils  distended  and  his  mouth  In  a  quiver. 


Strange  Vision  of  Arabella         123 

He  leaned  over  the  pulpit  and  listened  intently 
at  Arabella.  He  was  anxious  to  hear  her 
prediction.  The  suspense  was  telling  on  his 
nerves,  and  his  heart. 

"  What  wuz  it,  sister?  "  he  cried  In  his 
agony. 

"  An'  I  look  back-er,  an'  seed  dat  it  had  a 
long  pair  years-er,"  continued  Arabella. 

The  excitement  had  reached  Its  zenith. 
The  tension  was  greatest,  and  the  crowd  could 
constrain  Itself  no  longer.  The  spell  was 
broken  when  Elder  Brown  shouted:  "An' 
thank  Gawd  it  were  a  mule-erl  " 

"Amen!  "  added  the  parson. 

"  Hold  me,  hold  me,  hold  me,  ef  you  don't 
I'll  fly  away  to  glory  an'  leave  you  all,"  bel- 
lowed Arabella. 

"  Brother  Simpkins,  hold  yo'  wife,"  cried 
a  voice. 

Caesar  Simpkins  rose  from  his  seat  and 
started  toward  Arabella,  who  was  prancing  up 
and  down  the  center  aisle,  but  when  she  saw 
him  coming  she  waved  her  hand  at  him  and 
sung: 


124  Tar  Heel  Tales 

'*  GVay,  Caesar,  gVay,  I  don^t  want  you  to 

hold  me, 
Fs  gut  sugar  an'  molasses  In  my  soul, 
An'  I  want's  Brer  Honeycutt  to  hold  me." 

Parson  Honeycutt  hurried  down  from  the 
rostrum,  caught  Arabella  by  the  right  arm, 
and  they  went  up  the  aisle  singing  ^'  Glory 
hallelujah!" 

Arabella  went  Into  a  trance,  fell  In  Brother 
Honeycutt's  arms,  and  was  carried  out  and 
laid  upon  the  grass  beneath  a  large  oak  tree, 
where  she  was  permitted  to  cool  off  and 
"  come  around." 

The  sequel :  That  afternoon,  while  on  his 
way  home.  Brother  Honeycutt  was  thrown 
from  his  roan  mule.  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
who  became  frightened  at  a  toad  hopping 
across  the  road,  and  had  his  left  forefinger 
broken. 

**  I  told  you  so  I  "  said  one  and  all.  "  Dat 
nigger's  vision  allers  comes  true." 


A  NEGRO  AND  HIS  FRIEND 

ON  a  sultry  morning  In  August,  nine- 
teen hundred  and  two,  an  ex-Confed- 
erate soldier,  who  had  fought  under  Lee  and 
Jackson,  hobbled  across  Independence  Square, 
bearing  heavily  upon  his  cane,  on  his  way  to 
the  Mecklenburg  county  courthouse.  From 
the  opposite  direction  came  a  young  fellow, 
with  ruddy  complexion,  beaming  face  and 
springy  step,  en  route  to  the  railway  station 
to  take  an  early  train  for  a  neighboring  town. 
The  two,  unexpectedly,  came  together  In  front 
of  the  Central  Hotel  and  extended  their  right 
hands  to  each  other. 

"  Why,  father,"  exclaimed  the  younger 
man,  "  what  are  you  doing  here  this  time  of 
day? 

"  Have  you  driven  all  the  way  from  home 
this  morning?  " 

"  Yes,  son,  I  left  the  farm  about  daylight, 
and  just  this  moment  arrived. 

125 


126  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Jim  IS  in  trouble  again." 

"  Another  church  row  ?  '* 

"  Yes;  a  camp  meeting  this  time." 

"  Well,  father,  I  think  if  I  were  in  your 
place  I  would  let  that  negro  go  to  the  roads. 
The  ball  and  chain  might  improve  him.  He 
has  given  you  no  end  of  trouble  and  cost  you 
some  money;  let  him  take  his  medicine." 

*'  I  don't  know  about  that,  Harry;  your 
mother  and  I  have  decided  to  stand  by  him 
once  more.  He  is  a  mighty  good  boy  about 
the  place  and  we  have  implicit  confidence  in 
him." 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  forever  fighting  and  get- 
ting in  court.     Let  him  go  I  " 

*'  Well,  son,  his  daddy.  Old  John,  was  a 
good  darkey,  and  your  grandfather  would  not 
like  it  if  we  were  to  let  one  of  his  old  car- 
riage driver's  boys  go  to  prison  if  we  could 
help  It. 

"  I  know  Jim  is  pretty  bad  about  fighting 
negroes,  but  he  Is  a  good  hand,  and  we  get 
on  well  with  him." 

"  How  many  negro  meetings  has  he  broken 
up  since  you  hired  him?  " 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend         1127 

.''  "  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  would  say  four 
or  five.  He  has  a  sort  of  mania  for  that. 
He  Is  always  polite  to  us  and  never  complains 
when  asked  to  do  extra  work.  We  call  on 
him  to  go  errands  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or 
night,  and  he  goes  cheerfully.  I  do  not  see 
how  we  could  get  on  without  him;  he  milks 
the  cows  if  the  cook  Is  sick,  cuts  the  stove- 
wood  and  carries  it  in,  churns  if  there  Is  no- 
body else  to  do  it,  feeds  and  curries  the  horses, 
helps  your  mother  to  make  preserves,  or  pic- 
kles, or  put  up  the  fruit,  and  drives  the  car- 
riage to  church  on  Sunday. 

"  Yet,  Harry  if  I  had  not  known  John  and 
Mary,  his  parents,  I  might  let  him  go  without 
putting  up  a  fight  for  him,  but  his  daddy  or 
mammy  would  have  done  anything  for  your 
mother,  and  your  grandfather  would  turn 
over  in  his  grave  if  he  could  know  that  I  had 
not  done  my  duty  toward  Jim. 

"  I  don't  know  how  serious  this  last  affair 
Is,  but  I  will  employ  a  lawyer  and  fight  It 
out." 

Harry  Brown  did  not  leave  the  city  that 
day  but  remained  at  home  to  see  If  he  could 


128  Tar  Heel  Talcs 

be  of  service  to  his  aged  and  decrepit  father. 
He  went  to  the  jail  and  had  a  talk  with  Jim, 
who  had  been  his  childhood  playmate,  and 
learned  his  side  of  the  case. 

"  Mr.  Harry,  you  think  de  jedge  will  make 
It  putty  hard  on  me?"  asked  Jim,  as  the 
young  white  man  turned  to  leave. 

"  I  can't  say,  Jim,  but  he  Is  a  strict  church 
man  —  a  Scotch-Irish  Presbyterian  —  and  It 
would  be  difficult  to  predict  the  result.  If  it 
Is  possible  to  keep  your  fighting  record  out  of 
court  I  think  we  can  get  him  to  be  merciful, 
but  If  some  one  lugs  your  past  In,  then,  with 
this  Puritanical  judge,  you  may  take  a  tumble 
toward  the  chain-gang." 

"  Orh,  Mr.  Harry,  you  don't  think  no 
white  jedge  wud  send  a  good  nigger  lak  me 
to  de  roads  des  fur  breakin'  up  a  nigger  camp 
meetin',  do  you?  " 

"  Things  have  changed,  Jim.  You  can't 
tell  nowadays,  since  the  people  have  become 
so  particular  about  drinking,  gambling,  and 
the  like,  what  a  judge  will  do.  I'm  a  little 
uneasy  about  you." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Harry,  tell  Marse  Henry  to 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend  129 

Stan'  by  me  des  one  mo'  time,  an'  den  I'll  do 
better.  Ef  I  gits  out  dis  time  I  sho'  will 
'have  mysef." 

Jim  Parks  was  the  kind  of  negro  that  one 
finds  about  oldtlme  Southern  country  homes: 
as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  with  a  mouth 
full  of  pretty  white  teeth,  every  one  as  sound 
as  a  silver  dollar,  and  muscular  and  active. 
There  were  but  few  things  about  the  farm 
that  he  could  not  do  when  he  tried.  Every- 
body, even  the  other  negroes,  liked  him. 
With  white  people  he  was  mannerly,  pleasant 
and  obliging,  always,  and  those  who  knew 
him  at  the  Brown  home,  as  he  went  about 
his  work,  could  not  believe  the  stories  they 
heard  of  his  midnight  brawls  and  dark-house 
fights  at  negro  gatherings.  Usually  he  was 
such  a  happy-go-lucky  chap  that  his  white 
friends  could  not  Imagine  him  in  the  role  of 
a  bully. 

But  Jim  Parks  at  home,  among  his  white 
folks,  and  Jim  Parks  abroad,  with  the  people 
of  his  own  race,  were  different  persons  —  a 
Dr.  Jekel  and  a  Mr.  Hyde. 

At  noon,   Saturday,  the  last  day  of  the 


130  Tar  Heel  Tales 

Mecklenburg  court,  Judge  Shaler  presiding, 
Solicitor  Bluelaw  called  the  ZIon  Camp 
Meeting  case,  and  put  Rev.  Archie  Degraffen- 
reld  LaFayette  Small,  colored,  on  the 
stand. 

"  Parson,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney, 
"  tell  the  court  what  took  place  at  the  camp 
ground  that  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  sir;  it  wuz  lak  dis:  Vd  been  in  de 
pulpit  about  two  minutes,  gettin'  ready  to 
preach  de  eight  o'clock  sermon,  when  I  seed  a 
commotion  in  de  grounds,  about  two-hund'd 
yards  away,  an'  twuzn't  long  'fo'  I  heard  a 
pistol  crack,  an'  dere  wuz  a  scatteration  of 
people." 

"  Who  used  the  weapon?  " 

"  I  heard  'em  say  it  wuz  dis  here  Jim 
Parks  —  dat  boy  over  dere." 

"  Don't  tell  what  you  heard,"  said  CoL 
Calvin  Tedder,  attorney  for  the  defense, 
"  but  what  you  actually  saw." 

"Yes,  sir;  well  de  moist  dat  I  seed  wuz 
folks  runnin'  —  gittin'  away  frum  dere." 

"  Did  you  hear  more  than  one  pistol 
shot?  "  asked  the  solicitor. 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend         131 

"Yes,  sir;  some  several  shots.  In  fact, 
sir,  dey  come  so  fas'  dat  I  couldn't  give  out 
de  hymn  fur  hearin'  'em." 

*'  You  were  pretty  badly  frightened,  were 
you  not?  " 

"  'Cose  I  wuz,  sir,  an'  I  ain't  shame  to  say 
it.  I  felt  my  legs  trimblin',  an'  I  couldn't 
keep  my  eye  on  de  book. 

"  Yes,  sir,  de  public  worship  wuz  already 
disturbed.  Ef  de  shootin'  had  stopped  dere 
de  law  wuz  done  broke. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  this  defendant  the  man  who  created 
the  disturbance  in  the  yard?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  he's  de  one,  fur  I  knows  him 
well.  He's  de  one  dat  tuck  Brother  Jones' 
watermillons,'* 

"How  is  that?"  asked  the  court,  inter- 
ested. 

"  Yes,  sir,  please  yo'  honor,  it  wuz  lak  dis: 
Brother  Jones,  uv  de  Sandy  Creek  kermunity, 
focht  a  load  uv  watermillons  an'  wuz  sellin' 
'em,  when  dis  man  Parks  come  out  uv  one  uv 
de  tents  an'  pick  out  a  big  millon  an'  'low: 
*  I'll  des  take  dis  one  wid  me.' 


132  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  *  Not  till  you  give  me  thirty-five  cents,' 
says  Brother  Jones,  dis  lak  dat. 

"  *  Take  dat,'  said  dis  boy,  pitchin'  Brother 
Jones  a  nickel. 

"  Dat  wuz  de  start  uv  it,  an'  one  word 
brought  on  another  'till  Parks  jerked  out  his 
gun  an*^  'fell  to  shootin'." 

*^  Who  did  he  shoot  at?" 

**  Brother  Jones." 

"What  did  Jones  do?" 

"  Run,  sir.  De  last  time  I  seed  'im  wuz 
when  he  struck  de  woods  'bout  half  mile 
away." 

"  It's  generally  time  to  run  when  this  ne- 
gro gets  after  you  with  a  revolver,  ain't  it?  " 
asked  the  solicitor. 

*'  Yes,  sir.  He's  gut  de  reputation  uv  be- 
in'  mighty  handy  wid  his  gun." 

"  What  followed?     Tell  the  whole  story." 

"  Well,  sir,  befo'  Brother  Jones  wuz  out 
uv  sight  good,  dis  Jim  Parks  come  to  de  arbor 
an'  saunter  down  de  aisle." 

"  Did  you  see  him?  " 

"  'Cose  I  did;  I  wuz  makin'  out  lak  I  wuz 
readin'  de  hymn,  but  de  truf  wuz  I  had  my 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend         133 

eye  on  dat  nigger,  'cause  I  knowed  'Im  uv 
old." 

''  Go  ahead;  tell  what  you  saw." 
"  Yes,  sir.  I  know'd  dat  I  couldn't  hold 
de  'tension  uv  de  crowd  arter  he  'peared  on 
de  scene,  but  I  wuz  gwlne  to  try  to  tame  'im. 
Brother  Smith,  one  uv  my  right-hand  men, 
had  done  had  some  'sperlence  wid  de  boy,  an' 
he  fainted  over  In  de  amen  corner,  fell  off 
de  bench  an'  rolled  under  It.  When  I  seed 
dat,  I  wuz  sorter  confused,  fur  I  wuz  lookln' 
fur  Brother  Smith  to  he'p  me  out. 

"  DIs  Jim,  he  come  on  down  de  aisle,  grln- 
nln',  until  he  gut  'bout  half  way  to  de  pulpit, 
an'  den  he  stop  an'  take  out  his  'volver,  a 
black  lookln'  one,  as  fur  as  I  kin  reckerlec', 
an'  look  at  me  an'  say:  *  Big  Nigger,  we 
ain't  gwlne  to  have  no  eight  o'clock  service 
dis  mornin'.     Church  Is  out.'  " 

"  What  did  you  say  to  that,  Parson?  " 
^'  Not  wantin'  to  cross  'Im,  I  'low :     *  'Cose 
It  Is,  'cose  it  Is  —  we  ain't  gwlne  to  argify 
'bout  dat,  Brother  Parks.'  " 

"  You  called  him  Brother  Parks?  " 

*'  Yes,  sir,  I  wuz  tryin'  to  make  up  to  'im." 


134  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"What  did  he  do  then?" 
*'  He  take  aim  at  me  an'  say:     *  Come  on 
down,  Big  Nigger  I     Come  on  down!     An' 
don't  be  so  long  'bout  it !  ' 

*'  Seein'  dat  he  wuz  meanin'  bizness  I  'low: 
*  Yes,  Brother  Parks,  I's  comin','  but  'fo'  I 
coul'  git  It  out  he  wuz  pintin'  his  gun  at 
me. 

"  Go  on !  "  demanded  the  solicitor,  in  an 
excited  tone  of  voice. 

"  I  heard  de  pistol  say  *  click,  click.'  I 
don't  know  what  happened  arter  dat  fur  I  lef ' 
dere  right  den,  goin'  th'ough  de  hole  at  de 
back  uv  de  pulpit.  As  I  lef  he  wuz  cockin' 
de  'volver  but  when  I  heard  de  'port  I  wuz 
crossin'  Mr.  Bob  Bell's  paster  fence  several 
hund'd  yards  away." 

"  Did  he  shoot  directly  at  you?  " 
"  I  can't  say  as  to  dat,  but  as  I  went  over 
de  fence  I  heard  de  ball  ajunin'  putty  close 
to  my  year." 

"  What  became  of  the  congregation?  " 
"  Moist  uv  it  went  th'ough  de  woods  des 
a  little  ahead  uv  me.     Yes,  sir.     I  think  some 
uv  de  younger  ones  staid  an'  fout." 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend  135 

*'  That  will  do,  don't  tell  what  you  think," 
shouted  Col.  Tedder. 

"  Well,  dat's  all  I  seed  fur  I  never  went 
back  no  mo'  'till  nex'  day,  an'  de  fightin' 
crowd  wuz  gone." 

The  essential  features  of  Parson  Small's 
testimony  were  corroborated.  Several  of  the 
officers  of  the  church  gave  their  versions  of 
the  affair.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  against 
Jim. 

Col.  Tedder  was  afraid  to  put  his  client 
on  the  stand  lest  his  court  record  be  produced. 
He  rested  his  case  after  making  a  short  ram- 
bling speech.  After  remaining  out  three 
minutes  the  jury  came  In  and  rendered  a  ver- 
dict of  guilty. 

Col.  Tedder  spoke  eloquently  for  mercy 
for  his  negro,  saying  that  he  was  a  good  dar- 
key, except  now  and  then  when  he  drank  a 
little  too  much. 

"  Stand  up  here,  Jim  Parks,"  said  the 
judge,  when  Col.  Tedder  sat  down. 

*'  What  do  you  mean  by  disturbing  public 
worship? 


136  Xar  Heel  Tales 

"  Why  do  you  persist  In  breaking  up  camp 
meetings? 

*'  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  wrong?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  Jedge,  an'  I  ain't  gwlne  to  do 
it  no  mo'.  Ef  you'll  des  let  me  off  dis  time, 
so  dat  I  kin  go  home  wid  Marse  Henry,  I'll 
be  a  good  nigger  de  res'  uv  my  life. 

"  No,  sir,  Marse  Jedge,  you  needn't  worry 
'bout  dis  nigger  no  mo',  'cause  he  ain't  gwlne 
to  come  back  here  ef  he  live  a  hund'd  years." 

"  That  Is  very  fine  talk  but  you  don't  mean 
it,"  declared  the  court.  "  Nothing  short  of 
the  chain-gang  will  cure  you.  I  will  sentence 
you  — " 

"  Hold  on,  boss,  ain't  you  gwlne  to  let 
Marse  Henry  say  a  word  fur  de  ole  nigger?  " 

"  He's  already  said  that  you  were  all  right 
except  about  fighting  negroes.  The  court 
must  protect  all  classes  of  citizens.  I  will 
give  you  nine  months." 

"  Amen !  "  whispered  Parson  Small. 

'Squire  Brown  dropped  his  head  to  keep 
from  meeting  Jim's,  tearful  eyes,  as  the  boy 
marched  out  to  the  jail,  handcuffed  to  two 
other  culprits. 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend  137 

"  That  was  about  a:  I  anticipated,"  said 
Harry  to  his  father,  as  they  left  the  court- 
house. "  Jim's  reputation  hurt  him  with  the 
judge.  If  you  had  been  In  Judge  Shaler's 
place  you  would  have  done  the  same  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are  right,  but  I  don't 
like  to  see  the  boy  go  that  way.  It  would 
cost  close  to  seventy  dollars  to  get  him  out; 
he  owes  me  something  now;  I  have  not  the 
money  to  spare,  and  cannot  afford  to  pay  him 
more  than  ten  dollars  a  month  if  I  have  him. 

*'  He  will  have  to  go  this  time." 

This  was  the  sorrowful  admission  of 
'Squire  Brown. 

"I  think  you  are  right;  let  him  try  the 
road  awhile,"  added  the  less  sentimental  son. 

"  Now,  good-bye ;  if  I  run  upon  a  respecta- 
ble-looking negro  that  I  think  would  suit  you 
and  mother,  I  will  send  him  to  you." 

'Squire  Brown  collected  his  packages  and 
set  out  for  home,  a  long,  lonesome  ride 
through  the  country,  over  seventeen  miles  of 
macadam  road,  that  hot,  dusty  night.  He 
needed  Jim,  and  did  not  like  to  see  him  go  to 
prison,  but  could  not  prevent  it.     The  old 


138  Tar  Heel  Tales 

place  would  not  seem  the  same  without  the 
little  black  negro,  with  his  merry  laugh  and 
shining  face. 

"  I  don't  understand  why  the  little  rascal 
cannot  behave/'  said  the  'Squire  to  himself,  as 
his  horse  jogged  along. 

That  evening,  when  he  drove  up  to  the 
lot  gate,  Mrs.  Brown,  who  had  been  looking 
for  him  for  hours,  called  out  in  a  strident 
voice:     "Well,  did  you  bring  Jim?'* 

"  No,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  he  went  to  jail  in 
spite  of  all  I  could  do;  the  judge  was  preju- 
diced against  him.  He  will  have  to  serve 
nine  months  on  the  chain-gang." 

*'  That  is  too  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 
"  Jim  is  a  good  darkey." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  'Squire,  "  but  he  will 
break  up  camp  meetings. 

"  I  did  all  I  could,  employed  a  lawyer, 
spoke  to  the  solicitor,  and  swore  a  half-lie 
about  Jim's  character." 

Bright  and  early  Monday,  'Squire  Brown 
and  his  son,  Harry,  met  on  the  Square  in 
Charlotte,  just  as  they  had  met  two  mornings 
before. 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend         139 

"  I  am  surprised,  Dad,  to  see  you  here 
again  ?  '*  said  die  boy,  frowning. 

"  Why,  your  mother  and  I,  after  thinking 
the  matter  over  yesterday,  decided  to  take 
Jim  out;  It  win  cost  $65,  but  I  am  going  to 
do  It.  I  have  borrowed  the  money,  and  will 
take  the  negro  home  with  me." 

"You  are  a  good  one,  father  —  you  and 
mother  —  taking  Jim  out  of  jail,  but  there 
Is  something  about  that  sort  of  thing  that  I 
like,"  said  the  son,  smiling.  "  Race  prob- 
lem? Negro  haters?  Why  ask  who  Is  the 
negro's  friends  when  Incidents  like  this  occur 
every  day?  " 

Harry,  who  had  been  traveling  In  the  East 
and  West  for  four  or  five  years,  did  not  feel 
about  the  negro  as  he  once  did.  Being  In 
constant  touch  with  the  old  cornfield  darkey 
'Squire  Brown  had  a  different  viewpoint. 
The  kindly  feeling  that  the  younger  man  once 
had  was  passing  away. 

Late  that  afternoon,  In  a  cloud  of  summer 
dust,  'Squire  Brown  and  Jim  Parks,  his  negro, 
drove  out  South  Tryon  street  toward  Plne- 
vUle,  and  In  passing  in  front  of  The  Observer 


140  Tar  Heel  Tales 

building  Jim  caught  sight  of  Harry,  turned 
in  the  buggy  and  shouted  back :  *'  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Harry,  me  an'  Marse  Henry's  gwlne 
home  to  see  your  Maw.  Be  a  good  boy,  an' 
don't  let  de  jedgc  git  you.  'Have  yo'se'f,  an' 
stay  out  uv  cote,  but  ef  you  do  git  In,  by  acci- 
dent, des  lak  I  done,  don't  have  Col.  Tedder 
to  'fend  you,  onless  you  spects  to  go  right  on 
to  jail." 

"  No  wonder  the  old  folks  like  the  black 
scamp,"  said  Harry,  laughing  to  himself. 
"  He's  an  Interesting  negro." 

There  was  great  rejoicing  on  the  Brown 
place  that  night  when  the  'Squire  and  Jim  ar- 
rived. Ella,  Jim's  wife,  was  beside  herself, 
and  'Squire  and  Mrs.  Brown  were  almost  as 
happy.  Everybody,  white  and  black,  was  de- 
lighted. 

The  following  December,  after  the  cotton, 
the  corn,  the  potatoes,  and  the  fruit  had  been 
gathered,  Harry  visited  his  parents  at  the  old 
place.  In  driving  down  the  lane  he  observed 
that  the  little  log  cabin,  formerly  occupied  by 
Jim  and  Ella,  was  empty,  and  when  the  black 
worthy  failed  to  show  up  to  take  the  horse. 


A  Negro  and  His  Friend  141 

as  he  had  done  many  times  before,  he  asked 
of  his  father  what  had  become  of  the  negro. 

"  He's  gone  to  South  Carolina,"  said  the 
'Squire. 

"Left?" 

''Yes." 

"What  did  he  leave  for?" 

"  Why,  he  got  In  a  little  trouble  out  at 
Jones'  Chapel,  where  the  colored  people  were 
having  some  kind  of  a  church  festival,  and 
the  officers  were  after  him." 

"  He  jumped  the  game,  and  left  you  In 
the  lurch?" 

"  No;  I  told  him  to  run  so  that  they  could 
not  serve  a  warrant  on  him." 

"  And  you  a  justice  of  the  peace,  too?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  wasn't  elected  to  try  my  own  ne- 
groes." 

"How  much  does  Jim  owe  you?" 
I  don't  know,  exactly." 
A  pretty  good  sum,  I  guess?  " 

"  That  sixty-five  and  a  little  more  for  ra- 
tions." 

"Will  you  ever  get  it?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  Jim  is  ever  able  he  will  pay 
It." 


FAITHFUL  UNTO  DEATH 

THE  burial  of  Uncle  Billy  Malone,  of 
Jackson  county,  by  his  intimate  friends 
and  boon  companions,  was  one  of  the  stran- 
gest funerals  ever  held  in  North  Carolina,  or 
anywhere  else;  it  was  a  clear  case  of  birds  of 
a  feather  flocking  together  even  unto  the 
grave. 

Everybody  in  Jackson  knew  or  knew  of 
Uncle  Billy  Malone,  the  blacksmith-horse- 
trader;  he  was  one  of  the  few  very  interesting 
characters  of  the  county.  His  chief  end  in 
life  seemed  to  be  a  burning  desire  to  satisfy  an 
unquenchable  thirst  for  strong  drink.  He 
was  a  confirmed  toper,  and  all  of  his  personal 
friends  were  of  the  same  persuasion. 

Uncle  Billy  and  his  associates  made  it  a 
rule  for  years  to  assemble  at  Washington,  the 
county  seat  of  Jackson,  every  off  day  —  every 
Saturday,  every  wet  day,  every  holiday,  in 
fact,   every  day  they  could,   and  drink  the 

142 


Faithful  Unto  Death  143 

health  of  each  other,  the  state  and  the  nation. 
It  was  a  jolly  lot  and  Uncle  Billy,  the  dean, 
was  the  oldest  of  them  all;  his  son  Sid,  the 
youngest,  and  Col.  William  LaFayette,  the 
wisest.  The  little  circle  numbered  eight,  and 
It  was  a  close  corporation  while  the  cup  passed 
around.  Whiskey  was  the  besetting  sin  of 
each  and  every  one  of  them,  who  drank  when« 
ever  he  could,  and  wherever  he  could. 

Col.  LaFayette  was  a  tenant  farmer  —  a 
typical  tenant  farmer  of  a  class  that  lived 
in  the  cotton-producing  section  of  the  South 
after  the  civil  war.  During  the  days  of  slav- 
ery he  served  as  overseer  for  small  slave- 
owning  landlords.  Most  of  his  kind  moved 
to  the  towns  of  the  Piedmont  counties  of  the 
Southern  States  when  cotton  mills  began  to 
flourish  and  put  their  children  at  work  at  the 
spindle  and  the  loom.  The  sorrier  ones  be- 
came vampires. 

In  appearance  Col.  LaFayette  was  a  freak, 
but  in  manner,  a  sort  of  shabby-genteel  Ches- 
terfield. He  was  a  cadaverous-looking  fel- 
low, with  long  body,  long  legs,  and  long  arms, 
and  thin,   sharp,  pointed  face.     The  oldest 


144  Tar  Heel  Tales 

citizen  of  his  county  did  not  remember  to 
have  seen  him  In  well-fitting  clothes.  His 
shirt  sleeves  were  too  short,  and  his  trousers 
never  reached  the  top  of  his  shoes.  He  ha- 
bitually wore  a  slouch  hat,  with  one  side  up 
and  the  other  down,  and  went  with  his  shirt 
front  open  and  his  shoes  loosely  laced. 

Picture  him  In  your  mind,  trudging  his  way 
to  town  to  join  his  chums  at  The  Merry  Bowl, 
Jim  Roediger's  saloon!  Any  excuse  took 
him  In,  for  he  was  always  certain  that  his 
friends,  all  of  whom,  save  Uncle  Billy,  were 
fellow  tillers  of  the  soil,  would  meet  him 
there.  No  particular  day  was  set  but  the 
little  band  of  drinking  cronies  came  together 
like  iron  filings  to  a  magnet.  If  any  one 
failed  to  appear  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened to  prevent  his  coming.  Jim  Boggs, 
Pete  Blue,  Sam  Helms,  Mike  Broom  and  Bob  " 
Sink  belonged  to  the  coterie. 

Such  were  the  running  mates  of  Uncle  Bill 
Malone;  all  good  fellows,  and  harmless,  ex-   ' 
cept  to  their  own  constitutions.     They  stood 
In  their  own  light  but  no  one  could  say  aught 
against  any  of  them,  barring  the  fact  that  he 


Faithful  Unto  Death  145 

drank  to  excess,  and  that  was  a  common  com- 
plaint at  that  time.  They  had  lived  together 
so  long,  and  enjoyed  one  another's  society  to 
such  an  extent  that,  up  to  the  time  of  Uncle 
Billy's  death,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
business  associations,  they  shunned  the  rest  of 
mankind,  not  that  they  were  ashamed  but  that 
ordinary  men  bored  them.  Their  circle  was 
complete. 

On  a  cold  —  bitter  cold  —  night  in  De- 
cember, 18 — ,  the  angel  of  death  knocked  at 
the  cabin  door  of  Uncle  Billy  Malone.  With- 
out warning,  and  suddenly,  the  call  came. 
The  old  man  had  not  been  feeling  well  for 
several  days,  but  he  had  not  complained  to  his 
companions.  The  facts  concerning  his  last 
moments  are  not  known  to  the  outside  world. 
The  curtain  is  down  and  no  one  can  say  how 
Uncle  Billy  passed  from  life  to  eternity.  But 
the  charitable  m.ust  believe  that  he  was  sober 
and  clothed  in  his  right  mind. 

The  day  before  the  summons  came  De  Ate, 
as  the  party  was  known,  foregathered  at  The 
Merry  Bowl  and  drank  until  late.  Sid  and 
his  father  got  home  just  before  dark.     The 


1^6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

next  morning,  when  the  son  went  to  arouse 
his  father,  he  found  his  body  cold  In  death. 

But,  let  us  turn  to  the  funeral! 

Sid  Malone  behaved  like  a  child  in  the 
presence  of  death.  The  very  thought  of  be- 
ing alone  and  face  to  face  with  a  dead  kins- 
man seemed  to  unnerve  him.  There  was  but 
one  definite  idea  in  his  head  and  that  was  that 
his  father  had  to  be  buried. 

"  Who  IS  to  do  It? ''  he  asked  himself. 

"  Why,  his  friends !  '*  was  the  natural  an- 
swer. 

"  Who,  Col.  LaFayette,  and  the  others  of 
De  Ate?" 

Those  were  the  only  friends  he  knew.  He 
had  not  been  to  church  in  forty  years,  and  no 
preacher  had  ever  put  foot  in  his  home. 

"  Is  there  no  woman  or  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel? "  asked  Sid. 

"  Not  one,"  echo  answered. 

With  these  thoughts  running  through  his 
mind  Sid  mounted  his  mule  and  started  to  the 
several  homes  of  his  friends  to  announce  the 
sad  news.  He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  met 
Col.  LaFayette  and  others,  riding  through 


Faithful  Unto  Death  147 

eight  inches  of  snow,  on  their  way  to  Wash- 
ington for  a  drinking  frolic.  Thinking  of 
nothing  but  the  exhilarating  glass  that 
awaited  them  at  The  Merry  Bowl,  they  did 
not  recognize  Sid  Malone  as  he  came  riding 
down  the  road. 

The  death  of  his  father  had  softened  Sid, 
and  his  heart  was  sore.  When  his  compan- 
ions came  in  sight  he  was  thinking  of  the  un- 
certainty of  life  and  the  certainty  of  death,  a 
subject  he  had  never  considered  before.  The 
turning  place  for  him,  he  argued,  had  come. 
But  alas  I  he  met  his  old  cronies,  and  the  flow 
of  serious  thought  was  diverted. 

"  Turn  back,  boys,  don't  go  to  town  to- 
day," said  Sid,  as  he  recognized  his  pals. 
"  Turn  back,  my  daddy's  daid  I  '* 

*'  Oh,  Sid,  don't  tell  me  that  your  daddy 
air  daid,'*  cried  Col.  LaFayette,  throwing  up 
his  hands  at  the  unexpected  and  shocking  an- 
nouncement.    "How  kin  It  be?" 

"  It  shore  is  the  truth,  and  I  want  you  fel- 
lers to  help  me  give  him  a  decent  burial." 

"Well,  Sid,  there  ain't  nothin*  that  I 
wouldn't  do  for  Uncle  Billy  Malone,  daid  or 


148  Tar  Heel  Tales 

alive,  and  as  quick  as  I  go  up  town  and  tend 
to  a  little  bizness  I'll  be  wid  you/' 

Col.  LaFayette  had  his  mind  fatally  fixed 
on  The  Merry  Bowl,  and  he  felt  compelled  to 
have  a  drink  before  he  could  do  anything  else, 
but,  be  it  said  to  his  credit,  that  although  his 
tongue  was  dry  and  his  head  set  on  the  saloon, 
his  heart  —  a  large,  warm  one  —  was  with 
his  dead  comrade.  He  was  loyal  and  true  to 
his  friends,  and  Uncle  Billy  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  list. 

He  went  to  The  Merry  Bowl  —  he  and  all 
of  his  associates  except  Sid,  who  went  to  the 
church  to  have  a  grave  prepared  —  took  a 
round  or  two  of  drinks  and  bought  several 
bottles  to  carry  away  with  them.  Having 
thus  fortified  against  the  cold  and  the  dreary 
hours  ahead  the  six  companions  of  the  Ma- 
lones  repaired  to  the  little  home  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  and  began  the  watch  over 
Uncle  Billy's  remains. 

Sid  Malone  and  his  father  lived  in  a  two- 
roomed  log  house,  which  had  been  built  two 
generations  before.  They  had  been  the  sole 
occupants  since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Malone, 


Faithful  Unto  Death  149 

mother  and  wife,  twenty  years  prior  to  that 
time.  It  was  a  wretched,  poverty-stricken 
place,  unkept  and  dilapidated. 

Here,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  the  friends 
of  the  late  lord  and  master  of  the  hut  sat  in 
silence,  doing  what  they  deemed  to  be  the 
right  thing  toward  their  departed  comrade. 
The  six,  with  solemn  faces,  sat  looking  in  the 
fire  that  crackled  away  on  the  hearth.  Deep 
down  they  were  sorrow-stricken  but,  withal, 
the  thirst  that  never  dies  tugged  at  them. 
At  first,  when  one  felt  that  it  was  Impossible 
to  do  without  a  drink  any  longer,  he  would 
rise  and  steal  quietly  out,  step  aside,  and  touch 
his  flask.  This  was  out  of  respect  to  the 
memory  of  Uncle  Billy.  However,  this  for- 
mality did  not  continue  long  for,  Inside  of  two 
hours,  the  boys  were  drinking  in  the  good  old 
way,  and  In  the  presence  of  the  corpse. 

Sid  returned  about  noon,  broken  and  de- 
jected, and  was  prevailed  upon  to  take  a  cup 
or  two  for  his  nerves. 

**  It's  mighty  hard,  fellers,"  said  Col.  La- 
Fayette,  ''  but  we  can  not  undo  what  has  been 
done.     The  Father  of  All  intended  that  we 


ISO  Tar  Heel  Tales 

should  go  just  like  Uncle  Billy  went.  I  hope 
that  my  takin'  off  will  be  as  sudden  and  as 
unlooked-for  as  his.  I  have  my  thoughts 
about  the  hereafter,  but  I  hope  to  be  with  my 
friends.  Let  us  drink  one  glass  In  honor  of 
our  old  friend  who  has  gone  on  before !  '^ 

The  frequent  drinks  of  whiskey  had  lifted 
the  sorrow  from  the  hearts  of  the  little 
band  of  associates. 

After  dinner,  while  a  heavy  snow  fell,  the 
friends  of  Uncle  Billy  Malone  put  the  body 
in  a  pine  coffin,  one  made  for  the  purpose  by 
the  dead  man,  and  bore  It  to  Its  last  resting 
place.  A  hand-car,  which  was  operated  on 
a  spur  of  a  trunk-line  road,  was  used  In  place 
of  a  hearse.  The  mourners  staggered  by  the 
car  and  shoved  it  along  the  rails.  On  the 
way  the  casket  fell  off  but  was  soon  replaced.. 
The  drinking  begun  early  In  the  morning,  had 
been  kept  up  all  day,  and  Col.  LaFayette  and 
his  friends  were  pretty  rocky. 

When  the  funeral  party  reached  the  church, 
Bellevue  Chapel,  there  was  no  one  to  greet  It. 
Simp  Syder,  the  colored  grave  digger,  was 
the  only  living  creature  In  sight.     The  trees. 


Faithful  Unto  Death  151 

the  church  top,  and  the  tombstones  were  cov- 
ered with  snow,  and  everything  seemed  dead 
and  cold. 

The  corpse  was  carried  to  the  open  grave 
and  let  down.  After  the  ropes  were  pulled 
out  the  associates  of  the  late  Uncle  Billy 
Malone  stood  and  looked  at  each  other,  in- 
quiring in  a  mute  way:  "  Is  it  possible  that 
no  one  can  say  a  word  —  a  last  word  —  for 
the  old  man?  " 

Col.  William  LaFayette,  big-hearted  fel- 
low that  he  was,  arose  to  the  emergency. 
Looking  in  the  grave,  at  the  coffin,  and  then 
passing  his  eyes  from  man  to  man,  he  knew 
that  the  task  had  fallen  on  him.  He  read 
in  the  faces  of  the  others  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  perform  the  last  rites  and  ceremo- 
nies over  the  body  of  their  departed  friend. 
On  realizing  this,  he  said:  "Stand  'round 
the  grave,  boys,  and  pull  off  your  hats.  Git 
as  close  as  you  can. 

"  There  air  nobudy  here  —  no  preacher, 
nor  weemens,  or  the  like  of  that  —  to  say 
nuthing,  and  It  just  won't  do  to  bury  a  man 
like  Uncle  Billy  Malone  without  something 


152  Tar  Heel  Tales 

being  said;  if  nobudy  else  will  say  it,  I  will. 

''  Here  air  the  body  of  Uncle  Billy  Ma- 
lone,  and  he  air  daid.  He  was  as  good-er 
man  as  ever  lived,  and  you  all  know  it.  And 
we  air  every  one  drunk,  and  I  would  go  fur- 
ther to  remark,  and  to  say,  that  if  Uncle 
Billy  were  here,  he'd  be  drunk,  too. 

"  Let's  all  hope  that  he's  gone  to  the  Good 
Place,  for  he  was  a  mighty  good  man. 
That's  all. 

"  If  any  of  the  rest  of  you  have  got  any- 
thing to  say,  say  it  now,  for  it  will  be  too 
late  to-morrow." 

That  closed  the  ceremonies.  The  grave 
was  filled  in,  and  the  more  tender-hearted  ones 
of  the  party  dropped  tears  on  the  red  clay 
that  covered  the  old  fellow's  body.  It  was  a 
solemn  scene,  there  in  the  snow-covered  grove, 
near  the  church.  Uncle  Billy's  friends  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  last.  They  had  done 
the  best  they  knew  how. 


"  RED  BUCK":   WHERE  I  CAME  BY 

IT 

THIS  is  a  story  of  North  Carolina  Fusion 
days,  two  years  before  the  Constitu- 
tional amendment,  disfranchising  the  negro, 
was  adopted.  In  1896  the  Populists,  man- 
aged by  Senator  Marion  Butler,  of  Sampson, 
and  the  Republicans  by  Senator  Jeter  C. 
Pritchard,  of  Buncombe,  were  standing  to- 
gether in  the  State  for  mutual  benefit  —  for 
pelf  and  pie  —  what  most  all  active  politi- 
cians stand  together  for.  The  Democrats 
were  down  and  out.  Ex-Judge  Daniel  L. 
Russell,  of  Wilmington,  and  Hon.  Oliver  H. 
Dockery,  of  Mangum,  both  of  the  sixth  con- 
gressional district,  were  the  candidates  for  the 
Republican  nomination  for  Governor,  which, 
at  that  time,  meant  an  election.  Charlotte, 
Union,  Anson,  Richmond,  Robeson,  New 
Hanover  and  other  counties  were  in  the  Shoe- 
string district. 

^53 


154  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  Republicans  were  very  busy. 

That  being  before  the  negro  was  disfran- 
chised, the  Republican  party  in  this  immediate 
section  of  the  State  was  largely  composed  of 
Afro-Americans.  A  county  convention  was 
held  in  Charlotte,  and  it  was  as  black 
as  Africa.  Of  course  there  was  a  sprinkling 
of  white  men  in  it,  but  nine  out  of  ten  of  the 
delegates  were  colored.  The  Dockeryites 
and  the  Russellites  came  close  to  blows. 
There  were  rumors  of  wars,  but  no  blood  was 
shed. 

Every  county  in  the  district  had  had  a  sim- 
ilar convention  and  named  delegates  to  the 
Maxton  meeting. 

The  all-absorbing  question  was :  "  Arc 
you  for  Dockery  or  Russell?  " 

Mr.  Dockery  was  known  as  the  "  Great 
Warhorse  of  the  Pee  Dee,"  and  Mr.  Russell 
as  "  The  Mighty  Dan  of  New  Hanover." 

The  Maxton  convention  promised  a  live 
newspaper  story.  Unless  the  hand  writing 
on  the  wall  had  been  misread  there  was  blood 
on  the  moon.     Some  sort  of  a  fight  seemed 


"Red  Buck"  .I5i 

certain  if  the  delegates  of  the  Shoestring  dis- 
trict ever  got  together. 

It  was  at  Maxton,  as  a  common  reporter, 
that  I  got  my  nickname,  Red  Buck,  now  a 
nom  de  plume.  When  the  fight  became 
warm  I  bolted  without  waiting  ceremonies. 

We,  the  Mecklenburg  delegates  to  the  dis- 
trict convention,  and  I,  my  paper's  rehance 
for  the  story  of  the  day,  left  Charlotte  on  the 
early  train,  a  bright  spring  morning,  and  jour- 
neyed eastward. 

At  Monroe  the  Union  delegation  got 
aboard,  and  at  Wadesboro  the  Anson,  and  at 
Rockingham  and  Laurinburg,  the  Richmond. 

The  train  was  literally  filled  with  negroes. 
I  had  a  dull  time  with  that  crowd  until  we 
got  to  Rockingham,  where  Claude  Dockery, 
whom  I  had  met  at  the  State  University  at 
Chapel  Hill  several  years  prior  to  that,  joined 
the  party  and  introduced  me  to  the  most  Inter- 
esting character  in  the  Dockery  contingent, 
Rich  Lilly,  a  tall,  wiry,  limber  negro,  with 
juicy  mouth  and  knappy,  dusty  head.  Rich 
was  going  to  do  what  he  could  toward  the 


156  Tar  Heel  Tales 

nomination  of  his  old  friend,  Col.  Oliver 
Dockery.  Somewhere  between  Rockingham 
and  Maxton  Rich  and  I  were  thrown  together, 
when  no  one  else  was  near.  Rich  beckoned 
to  me  and  dodged  behind  a  freight  car  and,  in 
order  to  see  what  he  wanted,  I  followed. 

"  Boss,  is  you  gwine  to  Maxton?  "  asked 
Rich,  holding  his  right  hand  under  his  coat 
tail  as  if  to  draw  his  gun. 

*'  Yes,  sir.  That  is  where  I  am  bound 
for." 

*'  Well,  say,  boss,  here's  des'  a  little  uv 
Duckery's  best,  won't  you  have  er  drink?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  don't  drink,"  said  I. 

*'  Looker  here,  boss,  you  mus'  not  be  no 
delegate?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not." 

"  Well,  Is  yer  gwine  to  de  convention?  " 

"  Yes.'* 

The  train  started  and  we  got  aboard.  Eich 
could  not  understand;  my  attitude  toward  his 
elixir  of  life  astonished  him. 

About  12  o'clock  the  convention  met  in 
a  large  hall,  provided  with  a  rostrum,  over 
a  store  on  Main  street.     The  hall,  having 


"Red  Buck"  157 

been  used  for  a  buggy  warehouse,  had  a  tram- 
way that  led  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  floor. 
Up  this  broad  and  slanting  way  the  delegates 
and  spectators  traveled.  I  was  one  among 
the  first  to  arrive,  with  a  chair  that  I  bor- 
rowed, a  small  lapboard  and  a  tablet,  and 
took  my  seat  on  the  rostrum,  in  the  north  cor- 
ner, against  the  rear  wall,  near  a  window  that 
looked  out  on  a  back  lot,  believing  that  I  had 
selected  the  best  place  in  the  house  for  my 
purpose. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  hall  was  well 
filled  with  people,  principally  negroes.  See- 
ing Mr.  Claude  Dockery  talking  and  laugh- 
ing  with  me.  Rich  Lilly  became  curious  again, 
and,  when  no  one  was  about,  he  came  up, 
looked  me  in  the  eye  and  asked:  *'  Boss,  for 
Gawd's  sake,  whut  Is  you  gwine  ter  do  ef 
you  ain't  no  dellgate." 

"  I  am  going  to  sit  here  and  watch  you  Re- 
publicans, take  notes  and  write  you  up  In  the 
paper  if  you  don't  behave  yourselves,"  was 
my  reply. 

"  O,  you's  er  writer  fur  de  paper?  " 

"  Yes." 


158'  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  I  sees." 

I  do  not  recall  any  but  the  more  violent 
Incidents  of  the  convention.  As  I  sat  there 
and  watched  the  various  delegations  take  their 
seats,  a  looker-on  in  Vienna  pointed  out  some 
of  the  celebrities. 

"  That  man  with  the  long  beard  and  long 
fig-stemmed  pipe,  Is  Dr.  R.  M.  Norment,  of 
Lumberton,"  said  my  coach.  "  The  man 
with  the  cripple  hand  is  Col.  B.  Bill  Terry. 
The  long-armed  man  with  abbreviated  trous- 
ers and  coat  sleeves,  Is  Speaking  Henry  Cov- 
ington." 

Many  others  were  named,  but  I  have  for- 
gotten most  of  them.  Later  Big  Bill  Sutton, 
of  Bladen,  came  In.  He  did  not  belong  to 
the  convention,  but  it  was  understood  that  he 
was  there  to  lead  the  Russell  forces  in  a  rough- 
house  affair  If  his  services  were  needed. 

No  one  would  have  Imagined  that  the 
quiet,  lifeless  body  of  men  of  the  first  half 
hour  of  the  convention  would  become  the  mob 
that  It  did  before  the  day  was  over. 

The  trouble  began  when  the  convention 
voted  on  a  permanent  chairman,  each  side 


*^  Red  Buck"  159 

claiming  the  majority  when  the  balloting  was 
over.  The  god  of  peace  had  quit  the  meet- 
ing and  the  devil  taken  possession.  Mr.  A. 
M.  Long,  of  Rockingham,  a  handsome  man, 
with  good  face,  was  put  up  by  the  Dockery- 
ites,  and  a  Wilmington  negro  by  the  Russell- 
ites.  Both  Mr.  Long  and  the  darkey  tried 
to  take  the  seat,  each  mounting  the  rostrum 
and  seizing  a  chair. 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  general  fight, 
which  began  on  the  stage. 

Knowing  the  power  of  Speaking  Henry's 
lungs  the  Dockery  delegates  began  to  yell 
*'  Covington,"  "  Covington,"  *'  speech,"  but 
in  the  meantime  the  Wilmington  negro,  the 
Russell  chairman,  had  been  deprived  of  his 
seat  by  force.  Mr.  Long  held  his  with  a 
brace  of  Colts. 

I  want  the  reader  to  understand  that  the 
fight  then  in  progress  was  none  of  my  affair. 
To  tell  the  whole  truth  I  did  look  on  with 
considerable  satisfaction  until  I  saw  two  or 
three  men  produce  pistols;  from  that  time  I 
had  one  eye  on  the  convention  and  the  other 
looking  for  a  way  to  escape. 


i6o  Tar  Heel  Tales 

Every  fighting  man  was  coming  to  the  ros- 
trum, throwing  nervous  delegates  out  of  the 
way  as  he  advanced. 

Rich  Lilly  brought  first  blood.  The  calls 
for  Henry  Covington,  the  supple  man  with 
the  oily  tongue,  were  heeded  by  that  gentle- 
man, who  was  just  as  fearless  as  wordy,  and 
while  others  glared  and  swore  at  each  other 
he  was  making  the  welkin  ring  with  Dockery 
thunder.  No  man  ever  made  more  gestures 
and  took  longer  strides  than  did  Speaking 
Henry  that  afternoon. 

With  a  quart  of  mean  liquor  in  his  stomach 
and  a  cigarette  In  his  mouth,  Rich  Lilly,  the 
warmest  Dockerylte  of  them  all,  pranced  be- 
hind Mr.  Covington,  following  him  with  his 
hands  and  feet  as  far  as  he  could  without 
injuring  himself. 

Seeing  this  double-barreled  performance  I 
lost  sight  of  the  free-for-all  fight  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  stage.  It  wasn't  what  Mr. 
Covington  said  but  the  way  he  said  it  that  at- 
tracted. Except  for  the  difference  in  color 
one  would  have  taken  Speaking  Henry  and 
Rich  Lilly  for  the  Gold  Dust  twins. 


"Red  Buck"  i6i 

"  Tell  It  to  'em !  "  shouted  Rich,  every 
time  he  hit  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  Lawd,  let  'em  have  It.  Dere  ain't 
no  candl-date  but  Col.  Duckery !  " 

Tiring  of  this,  a  Russell  man  In  the  back 
section  of  the  hall  roared  out :  "  Five  dollars 
for  the  man  who  will  pull  that  long-legged 
devil  down  from  there." 

No  sooner  had  the  offer  been  made  than 
did  a  short,  stocky,  big-headed  negro,  with  a 
Van  Dyke  beard,  start  from  the  fifth  row  of 
seats  toward  the  stand  to  catch  Covington  by 
the  leg. 

I  mounted  my  chair  to  see.  Having  the 
advantage  of  the  pedestal  I  could  take  in 
everything. 

Speaking  Henry  had  charged  and  jumped 
and  squatted  and  bounced  until  his  trousers, 
all  too  short,  had  climbed  nearly  to  his  knees 
and  his  heavy  home-knit  socks  had  fallen  over 
his  shoe  tops.  He  was  about  ready  to  fly 
when  the  designing  negro  reached  out  for  his 
thin,  bare  shank. 

But  there  came  a  turn;  Rich  Lilly,  who  had 
heard  the  offer  and  seen  the  negro  start  and 


1 62  Tar  Heel  Tales 

wend  his  way  to  the  stage,  was  guarding  the 
speaker.  Just  as  the  Wilmington  delegate 
made  a  pass  at  the  Dockery  speaker,  Rich 
bowed  his  back,  like  a  Thomas  cat,  ducked, 
shot  forward  and  gave  him  a  blow  between 
the  eyes  and  floored  him.  Speaking  Henry 
never  let  up.  In  fact,  he  never  knew  what 
had  happened  until  the  convention  was  over. 
Rich  resumed  his  antics  until  he  recalled  the 
fact  that  I  was  taking  notes  and  then  rushed 
back  to  where  I  had  dropped  into  my  seat, 
put  his  hands  on  my  knees,  looked  me  In  the 
face  and  asked,  seriously:  *'  Say,  boss,  did  I 
act  lak  er  delegate?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  do  it  again." 

To  my  certain  knowledge  Rich  hammered 
five  other  delegates  after  that  and  came  to 
see  if  I  approved  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
did  it. 

But  I  was  forced  to  forget  Speaking  Henry 
and  Rich  Lilly.  Other  incidents,  more  excit- 
ing and  more  strenuous,  were  in  progress. 
Big  Bill  Sutton  had  come  upon  the  rostrum 
and  was  throwing  delegates  east  and  west. 
Having  the  advantage  of  a  tremendous  frame 


"Red  Buck''  163 

and  a  notorious  reputation  as  a  scrapper  he 
walked  roughshod  over  less  fortunate  ones. 
But  there  was  one  man,  with  a  keen  eye,  an 
Iron  face  and  frosted  hair,  that  was  not  afraid 
to  face  him,  and  that  was  Mr.  Dan  Morrison, 
of  Rockingham,  9,  Republican  leader  at  that 
time. 

As  old  man  Bill  surged  on  the  rostrum  his 
son,  Dave,  screamed  back  at  Henry  Coving- 
ton from  the  hall.  I  saw  Mr.  Morrison  climb 
on  the  rostrum,  and  knew  that  he  was  mad. 
He  and  Big  Bill  glowered  at  each  other  for 
an  instant  at  twenty  paces.  Two  seconds 
later  they  were  rushing  at  each  other,  like 
vicious  dogs.  They  did  not  have  a  head-on 
collision,  but  side-swiped.  The  Rockingham 
man  got  the  best  of  the  first  round;  he  tore 
Sutton's  collar  and  tie  from  his  neck  and 
held  It  between  the  thumb  and  forefinger,  so 
that  all  might  see.  Friends  Interfered  and 
prevented  an  ugly  affair. 

**  Clear  the  rostrum !  "  shouted  some  one 
from  the  hall. 

That  is  what  the  chairmen  and  their  friends 
had  been  trying  to  do  for  some  minutes.    But 


164  Tar  Heel  Tales 

the  delegates  crowded  around  the  edge  until 
they  were  fifteen  or  twenty  deep  and  the  ros- 
trum was  alive  with  opposing  factions. 

After  the  Morrison-Sutton  mix-up  the 
fighting  became  general.  Some  fellow  in  the 
house  knocked  Dr.  Norment  over  a  seat,  jam- 
ming his  pipe  stem  halfway  down  his  throat. 

Times  were  beginning  to  look  squally  for 
me,  and  I  had  no  way  out.  To  my  left  was 
a  window,  but  if  I  went  out  that  it  meant  a  fall 
of  20  feet  to  the  ground;  to  my  right,  an 
anteroom,  with  a  small,  thin  wall ;  going  out, 
down  the  steps  from  the  rostrum,  the  way  I 
came  in,  seemed  at  that  time  an  impossibility. 
While  considering  the  advisability  of  going 
into  the  anteroom  and  closing  the  door  I  saw 
an  upheaval  across  from  me  and  before  I 
could  catch  my  breath  an  old  darkey  sailed 
into  the  room  and  slammed  the  door  and  I 
was  cut  off  there. 

All  the  while  the  mob  on  the  rostrum  be- 
came blacker  and  more  like  a  negro  festival. 
The  old  cornfield  negroes  were  just  beginning 
to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  meeting.  As  the 
colored  delegates   increased  the  white   ones 


*'Red  Buck"  165 

stole  away,  imagining  that  something  would 
be  doing  soon. 

Seeing  the  change  in  color  and  tempera- 
ment of  the  stage  crowd  I  began  to  have  se- 
rious concern  about  my  own  welfare.  Had 
the  fight  been  among  my  own  people  I  might 
have  taken  a  hand,  but  to  sit  idly  by  and  be 
punctured  with  a  pistol  or  a  knife  was  not  to 
my  liking.  I  was  slow  in  making  up  my 
mind.  But  there  came  a  time  when  I  had 
to  act  before  thinking  it  over.  As  I  sat  there 
and  wondered  what  injuries  I  would  receive 
if  I  jumped  out  the  window,  a  big  negro,  per- 
haps a  ditcher,  clad  in  overalls  and  wearing 
a  cap  and  high-top  boots,  broke  through  the 
mob  In  the  hall,  jumped  up  on  the  stand  im- 
mediately in  front  of  me,  and  began  to  finger 
In  his  boot  and  swear.  I  heard  him  mumble 
to  himself:  "  I'll  be  d — d  ef  I  don't  clar  dis 
hall  when  I  get  ole  Sallie." 

I  had  an  Idea  that  "  Ole  Sallle  "  was  a 
weapon  of  some  sort,  and  I  was  right,  for  a 
half  a  second  later  the  big  nigger  rose  to  his 
full  height,  threw  open  a  razor,  turned  around 
three    times    (coming    close    to    me    as    he 


1 66  Tar  Heel  Tales 

wheeled)  and  yelled,  "  Git  off  uv  dis  stage, 
don't  I'll  cut  yo'  throats  —  every  one  uv 
you.'* 

I  was  the  first  to  leave,  going  over  the 
heads  of  the  mob  that  had  collected  about 
the  edge  of  the  stage.  My  notebook  flew  to 
the  right  and  my  lapboard  to  the  left,  while 
I  continued  my  flight  straight  ahead  down  the 
tramway.  As  I  struck  the  street,  old  man  B. 
B.  Terry,  whom  I  knew  very  well,  stood  be- 
hind the  wall  of  the  brick  building,  and  peep- 
ing up  the  exit,  said :  "  I  gad,  that's  no  place 
for  a  well  man,  much  less  a  cripple."  I  did 
not  argue  the  point. 

I  was  followed  by  many  hundreds.  In 
fact,  the  entire  Russell  delegation  bolted,  some 
going  through  the  windows  and  others  down 
the  tramway. 

The  Dockery  men  remained  and  passed  a 
few  resolutions,  but  there  was  no  more  fight- 
ing. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  the  westbound 
delegates  were  waiting  at  the  station  to  take 
the  train,  some  one  discovered  that  Uncle 
Hampton,   a   very  ancient   colored  delegate 


"Red  Buck"  167 

from  Monroe,  was  missing.  I  heard  the 
talking  and  Inquired  as  to  his  appearance. 

"  Why,"  said  I, ''  that  Is  the  old  fellow  that 
went  In  the  anteroom  when  the  fight  began." 

A  party  of  us  visited  the  hall  and  knocked 
on  the  locked  door,  but  did  not  get  a  re- 
sponse. Finally  we  broke  In  and  there  sat 
old  man  Hampton,  jouked  down  In  the  cor- 
ner, afraid  to  move. 

Claude  Dockery,  who  sat  on  the  roof  and 
saw  me  make  the  famous  leap,  went  to  Ra- 
leigh and  told  Tom  Pence,  the  city  editor  of 
The  Times-Visitor,  that  "  Red  Buck  had 
bolted  the  convention."  I  was  the  butt  of 
papers  and  politicians  for  weeks.  The  Old 
Man  said,  in  an  editorial,  that  "  Red  Buck  " 
would  have  to  explain  why  he  bolted  and  he 
did  as  best  he  could.  Mr.  Caldwell  had  dub- 
bed me  "  Brick  Top,"  ''  Strawberry  Blond," 
and  "  Red  Buck,"  and  the  last  name  stuck 
because  of  the  Maxton  convention  and  Claude 
Dockery's  Interview. 


UNTIL  DEATH  DO  US  PART 

THE  man  who  earns  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  or  the  cunning  of  his  mind  a  com- 
fortable living  for  those  dependent  upon  him 
should  not  complain  but  consider  the  mean 
lot  of  others,  less  fortunate,  and  rejoice  at  his 
good  fate.  There  is  not  a  day  of  my  life  that 
I  do  not  see  some  wretch  faring  worse  than 
I ;  some  poor  person  struggling  desperately  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together. 

Let  us  thank  God  for  a  sound  mind  and  a 
sound  body:  that  we  do  not  think  side-whis- 
kers are  pretty  and  that  we  have  not  hair-lips. 

One  day  not  long  ago,  while  hurrying  from 
my  work,  I  passed  a  Greek  peanut  roaster, 
and  wondered  about  his  lot.  Day  after  day 
I  had  seen  him  with  his  little  push-cart,  but 
rarely  had  I  observed  any  customers. 

"  How  fares  it  to-day?  '*  said  I,  as  I  hur- 
ried by. 

i68 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  169 

"  Fine,  thank  you :  little  mon,  good  book, 
good  health,  and  heap  of  joy!  " 

"  There  is  a  philosopher,"  thought  I  to  my- 
self. "  He  is  a  happy  man.  His  life  seems 
to  be  sweet,  although  he  has  but  little  of  the 
goods  of  this  world." 

That  very  day  John,  that  son  of  Athens, 
had  sold  less  than  fifty  cents  worth  of  truck, 
yet  he  was  rejoicing  as  he  sat  on  the  curbing, 
reading  the  life  of  Thomas  Jefferson  in 
Greek. 

On  a  fine  afternoon.  In  the  spring  of  1898, 
I  walked  from  the  Hotel  LaFayette,  at  Fay- 
etteville,  to  the  Cape  Fear  river.  I  had  a 
purpose  in  making  the  trip;  I  had  been 
threatened  with  a  fit  of  melancholia  and  was 
trying  to  stave  It  off.  I  strolled  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  where  fishermen  were  wont  to 
tie  their  boats  at  night,  and  stood  there  look- 
ing, looking,  studying  the  topography  of  the 
country  and  the  people  In  their  labor  for 
bread  and  meat. 

I  tarried  on  a  pretty  little  hill,  just  above 
the  river,  where  I  had  a  good  view  of  the 
water  and  surrounding  fields.     The  territory 


170  Tar  Heel  Tales 

for  a  hundred  yards  square  in  my  immedi- 
ate vicinity  was  bald  and  smooth  from  the 
constant  tread  of  fishermen's  feet.  Back  of 
that,  early  vegetables  and  succulent  grasses 
were  springing  up.  Along  the  shore  a  dozen 
or  more  batteaus,  or  small  fishing  boats,  were 
chained  to  stakes,  or  anchored  to  each  other. 

Far  up  and  down  the  river  I  could  see 
men  in  boats,  gliding  noiselessly  along  the 
banks,  setting  hooks  for  the  evening  bite. 
It  was  past  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and 
the  big  fish,  cats,  carp  and  red  horse,  were 
beginning  to  run.  This  the  fishermen  knew 
and  were  hurrying  to  place  their  hooks, 
baited  with  mussels.  At  nine  o'clock  at 
night  and  early  the  next  morning  the  hooks 
were  looked. 

While  standing  there,  gazing  here  and 
there,  I  saw  a  party  of  small  negro  boys, 
wading  to  their  waists  in  the  water,  graveling 
in  the  sand,  for  mussels  to  sell  to  the  fisher- 
men. Silently  and  doggedly,  the  little  fel- 
lows hunted  the  slimy,  shell-covered  creatures, 
gathering  them  by  the  hundred. 

The  longer  I  remained  there  on  that  knoir, 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  171 

In  the  midst  of  that  peculiarly  fascinating 
life,  the  more  Interested  I  became.  Every 
man,  every  woman  and  every  boy  or  girl 
appealed  to  me.  Between  five-thirty  and  six 
o'clock  the  men  who  baited  and  placed  the 
hooks  came  ashore,  fastened  their  boats,  and 
went  to  their  respective  homes  for  supper 
and  a  moment  with  their  wives  and  children 
before  starting  out  for  the  night  fish.  I  saw 
them  go  and  come  with  their  nets.  From 
dark  until  about  ten  o'clock  they  fished  for 
shad,  the  most  valuable  fish  in  the  Cape  Fear 
at  that  season  of  the  year. 

It  is  Intensely  fascinating  to  watch  the 
movements  and  study  the  habits  and  man- 
ners of  the  people  who  get  their  living  from 
the  water.  They  belong  to  a  certain  class 
and  are  of  a  certain  type,  differing  from  their 
brothers  and  sisters  who  till  the  soil.  Lov- 
ing the  water  and  having  become  so  used  to 
it,  they  would  not  quit  it  for  the  land. 

As  a  rule,  river  people  are  strong  and 
ruddy.  Their  faces  are  hard  and  sunburned 
and  their  muscles  well-knit  and  tough. 

It  is  a  wholesome  life. 


172  Tar  Heel  Tales 

These  be  the  sort  of  men  I  saw  that  after- 
noon. On  the  ground  they  were  awkward, 
ill  at  ease,  and  grouchy,  but  in  their  boats 
graceful,  sturdy  and  merry. 

Soon  after  I  went  down  to  the  river  and 
settled  myself,  to  look  on  and  learn  what  I 
could  of  the  ways  of  the  living  things  about 
me,  I  heard  a  shuffling  noise  behind  me,  and 
when  I  turned  to  ascertain  the  cause,  my 
eyes  fell  upon  the  most  pitiful  creature  it  had 
ever  been  my  fortune  to  see.  A  woman,  yes, 
a  woman,  one  of  God's  noblest  creatures, 
stood  and  gazed  in  wonderment  at  me.  She 
had  approached  within  a  few  feet  of  me  be- 
fore she  realized  that  I  was  a  living  being; 
I  was  hid  from  the  view  of  the  path  that 
leads  from  the  town  to  the  river  by  a  thicket 
of  weeds  and  grass. 

Once  I  began  to  look  at  the  woman  I  could 
not  keep  from  staring  at  her.  She  was  rag- 
ged, wrinkled  and  unwashed.  The  clothes 
that  covered  her  back,  all  bent  and  mis- 
shapen, were  tattered  and  torn.  Her  leath- 
ery face  was  deeply  seamed  and  drawn. 
The  queer  sound  that  attracted  my  attention 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  173 

as  she  came  up,  was  made  by  her  shoes,  which 
were  large,  not  mates,  and  without  strings. 
They  slipped  up  and  down  upon  her  naked 
heels  and  made  the  "  slick-slack,"  "  slick- 
slack  "  noise,  so  familiar  to  the  country  boy 
who  has  plowed  in  his  father's  cast-off 
brogans,  several  numbers  too  large  for  his 
feet. 

The  woman  was  pathetic-looking,  her 
crestfallen  face  was  partially  hid  from  me 
by  an  antiquated,  dilapidated,  weather-beaten 
split  bonnet.  Every  garment  she  wore  was 
a  misfit  and  threadbare. 

I  felt  myself  drawn  to  this  poverty-stricken 
creature.  In  order  that  I  might  find  out 
something  about  her,  I  engaged  her  in  con- 
versation before  she  could  wheel  and  escape. 

"  Are  you  going  fishing?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered  pleasantly;  "  I  came 
down  to  see  if  I  could  see  my  old  man.  He 
is  fishing." 

"  Do  you  live  here?  " 

"  Yes.  We  have  lived  in  this  town  thirty- 
odd  years ;  me  and  my  old  man." 

"  What  does  he  do  for  a  living?  " 


174  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Well,  he  fishes  now.  He  is  getting  so 
old  and  feeble  that  he  cannot  do  anything 
else.  When  young  and  strong,  he  worked 
on  a  freight  boat  on  the  river,  but  his  health 
failed  about  ten  years  ago,  and  we  have  had 
a  mighty  hard  time  since.  I  have  actually 
seed  the  time  that  we  did  not  have  enough 
to  eat.  He  is  proud,  and  would  not  beg. 
He  fishes,  while  I  tries  to  make  a  little  money 
washing  and  sewing,  but  he  will  not  let  me 
work  much." 

"  Have  you  any  children?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Mister;  God  never  gave  us  any, 
and  I  expect  it  is  best.  We  are  so  poor  they 
might  have  a  hard  time.  Me  and  him  are 
all  of  the  two  families  left.  He  is  the  only 
person  that  I  have  to  look  to  and  he  is  good 
to  me.  He  does  his  best,  and  God  will  not 
forget  him  for  it." 

'*  Do  you  own  a  home?  " 

*'  No,  sir.  We  have  nothing  but  a  little 
bit  of  furniture.  We  live  in  a  rented  house 
and  the  man  who  owns  it  could  put  us  out  to- 
night, but  he  is  a  Christian  and  would  not 
do  it.     We  have  paid  no  rent  in  six  years. 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  175 

We  just  can't;  that's  the  reason.  But  it 
won't  be  long  now,  for  my  old  man  is  getting 
weak  —  weaker  day  by  day.  He  can't  live 
much  longer,  and  when  he  goes  I  hope  that 
I  may  go  too.  We  have  been  together  forty- 
odd  years,  and  In  death  I  pray  that  God  will 
not  part  us. 

"  The  Lord  has  been  good  to  us.  We 
get  comfort  from  the  Bible. 

"We  don't  see  anybody  nowadays;  we 
go  nowhere,  and  nobody  comes  to  see  us. 
The  friends  we  had  in  more  prosperous  days 
have  deserted  us;  there  Is  nothing  about  us 
to  attract  people.  Some  seem  to  shun  us 
through  fear  that  we  may  beg,  but  never, 
never;  we  would  starve  first.  My  old  man 
is  too  proud  to  beg.  I  live  in  fear  that  he 
may  get  so  feeble  that  he  cannot  go  and  that 
we  will  have  nothing.  He  often  says  that 
he  hopes  he  will  die  some  night  after  fishing 
all  day.     If  he  does,  I  want  to  go  too." 

"  Do  you  ever  go  to  church?  " 

**  No,  Mister;  we  haven't  been  in  goin' 
on  ten  years.  We  have  no  fit  clothes.  The 
churches  look  too  fine  inside  for  our  old  rags, 


176  Tar  Heel  Tales 

but  we  read  our  old  Bible  every  Sunday. 
We  can't  read  much  now;  our  eyes  are  bad; 
but  we  get  much  comfort  out  of  the  Good 
Book. 

"  The  Church  folks  don't  ever  come  to  see 
us.  They  don't  need  us,  as  we  ain't  got  no 
money  to  give.  I  guess  when  we  die  some 
good  preacher  will  say  a  word  over  our 
graves;  I  don't  know." 

This  said,  the  old  woman  moved  on  to- 
ward the  river,  craning  her  neck  as  she  went, 
so  that  she  could  see  to  the  right  of  a  clump 
of  trees  that  stood  near  the  water,  looking 
for  her  husband,  but  she  must  not  have  seen 
him,  for  she  soon  passed  back  on  her  way 
home. 

Becoming  interested  in  what  she  said,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  remain  there  till  the 
old  gentleman  arrived  and  look  him  over. 
I  had  a  long  wait,  for  it  was  almost  dark 
when  his  little  boat  hove  In  sight.  His  wife 
had  been  back  and  looked  up  the  river  sev- 
eral times.  She  seemed  lonely,  restless  and 
uneasy. 

I  felt  sorry  for  the  old  woman,  but  was 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  177 

afraid  to  say  so.  It  was,  as  she  said,  a  bitter 
fight  for  existence.  The  aged  pair  had  no 
associates,  and  actually  suffered  from  pov- 
erty. 

The  last  time  she  came  to  the  landing 
she  carried  in  her  arms  a  tiny,  toothless, 
starved  dog. 

*' Is  that  your  pet?"  said  I,  anxious  to 
reopen  the  conversation. 

"  Yes,  he's  nearly  twenty-two  years  old, 
and  has  been  ours  since  a  pup." 

^^  He  is  very  old,"  I  declared,  for  the  want 
of  something  better. 

"  Yes;  and  blind,  and  toothless." 

"  Why  do  you  keep  him?  " 

"  For  w^hat  he  has  been.  It  would  be 
cruel  to  kill  him  or  desert  him  now,  when 
he  cannot  take  care  of  himself.  I  shall  keep 
him  until  he  dies,  unless  I  go  first.  When 
he  was  younger  he  kept  me  company,  and 
guarded  our  little  home,  when  my  old  man 
was  down  the  river  for  days  and  nights  at  a 
time,  and  now,  if  God  spares  me,  I  will  see 
him  through.  I  have  to  make  a  sort  of 
soup  for  him  to  eat,  and  guide  his  footsteps. 


178  Tar  Heel  Tales 

I  do  not  think  he  is  here  for  much  longer; 
he  is  getting  very  thin  and  frail.'* 

She  let  him  down  on  the  ground  by  her 
side,  and  said:  *'  Fido,  do  you  love  your 
mistress?'*  and  the  grateful  little  brute 
shook  his  tail. 

The  wife  was  not  there  when  the  husband 
came;  though  I  had  never  seen  him  before 
I  knew  him  when  he  landed.  His  face  was 
haggard  and  worn,  and  his  body  emaciated. 
Some  disease  preyed  at  his  vitals.  His  con- 
stitution was  gone,  but  the  blazing  fire  of 
pride  still  burned  in  his  gray  eyes.  The  will 
and  the  spirit  were  there.  He  had  a  fair 
string  of  fish,  and  after  eating  the  smaller 
ones  would  have  enough  left  to  bring  twenty- 
five  cents. 

Having  tied  his  boat,  he  shouldered  his 
tackle,  took  up  his  fish,  and  climbed  the  hill 
past  me.  I  did  not  see  his  eyes  searching 
for  the  faithful  wife  who  had  four  times 
come  to  greet  him;  this  lack  of  care  I  did 
not  like.  He  seemed  too  indifferent.  Pos- 
sibly he  was  disappointed  when  his  old  com- 
panion was  not  there  to  meet  him,  not  know- 


Until  Death  Do  Us  Part  179 

ing  that  she  had  come  and  gone  time  after 
time.  He  dragged  his  weary  limbs  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  and  toward  the  city.  As 
he  went  by,  I  had  a  good  opportunity  to 
observe  his  clothes.  He  was  not  the  one- 
gallus  fellow  that  the  politicians  so  often 
refer  to,  but  the  no-gallus  one.  His  trousers 
were  held  up  by  sharp  hip-bones  and  his 
shirt  was  decorated  with  vari-colored  patches. 

I  followed  the  old  man,  until  he  met  his 
wife,  who  was  coming  In  a  half-trot  from 
their  little  cabin.  The  meeting  was  full  of 
meaning.  No  word  was  uttered;  no-  time 
lost.  He  looked  solemn,  the  least  bit  angry, 
and  she  smiled,  a  bitter  sad  smile,  and  turned 
and  followed  him.  Her  eyes  were  on  the 
fish,  giving  them  a  cash  valuation. 

All  of  this  passed  without  a  sound  from 
either. 

That  night,  after  I  had  enjoyed  a  good 
meal,  to  gratify  my  curiosity  I  walked  by  the 
home  of  the  lonely  couple,  and  found  them 
enjoying  a  pipe  of  tobacco  each.  The  little 
dog  was  there,  on  the  top  step  between  them, 
and  they  were  apparently  happy. 


i8o  Tar  Heel  Tales 

As  I  moved  on,  I  said  to  myself:  "I 
wonder  how  it  would  feel  to  be  penniless, 
friendless,  decrepit  and  old,  but  too  proud 
to  beg?  " 

May  fortune  smile  on  the  old  fisherman, 
his  loyal  helpmeet  and  their  little  dog ! 


UNCLE  GEORGE  AND  THE 
ENGLISHMAN 

THE  summer  season  was  In  full  blast  at 
Lake  Toxaway.  Hundreds  of  South- 
erners and  scores  of  others  were  there,  en- 
joying the  Invigorating  climate,  the  cooling 
breezes,  and  the  open-air  pastimes  —  golf, 
tennis,  fishing,  horseback  riding,  and  rowing. 
For  weeks  the  weather  had  been  fair  and 
fine,  and  the  beautiful  and  popular  resort,  in 
the  Blue  Ridge,  teemed  with  vivacious  vis- 
itors, who  romped  on  the  lake.  In  the  woods, 
and  along  the  roads  by  day  and  danced, 
played  cards  and  other  Indoor  games,  and 
chatted  In  the  evenings,  making  merry  fifteen 
hours  a  day. 

Among  the  guests  at  Toxaway  Inn  was  an 
Englishman,  a  Mr.  Ferrler,  who  had  come 
to  North  Carolina  In  search  of  rare  beetles. 
To  the  other  guests  of  the  fashionable  hos- 
telry Ferrler  was  a  freak  —  a  bug  hunter  — 

i8i 


1 82  Tar  Heel  Tales 

who,  although  he  mixed  but  rarely  with  the 
crowd,  was  well  known  to  all  by  his  tall, 
lanky  form,  his  long  stride,  and  energetic  and 
positive  air,  on  account  of  which  he  had  in- 
curred, without  his  knowledge,  the  dislike  of 
many  who  came  in  touch  with  him.  Wher- 
ever he  went  he  left  the  impression  that  he 
believed  England  was  the  only  place  fit  for 
a  decent  person  to  live. 

Captain  James  Brusard,  proprietor  of  the 
inn,  would  not  have  tolerated  Ferrier,  with 
his  whims  and  kicks,  had  he  not  been  one 
of  his  most  profitable  guests,  occupying  an 
expensive  room,  for  which  he  paid  an  ex- 
orbitant price.  The  Englishman  was  liberal 
with  his  money,  but  his  manner,  which  to  the 
average  Southerner  seemed  surly  and  uncivil, 
made  him  disagreeable  to  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact,  especially  the  easy-going, 
indolent  servants,  most  of  whom  were  old- 
time  negroes,  such  as  had  been  with  the  Bru- 
sards  for  more  than  half  a  century.  The 
excellent  fare,  carefully  selected  and  well 
cooked,  the  exhilarating  atmosphere,  the  re- 
freshing water  and  the  wealth  of  insects  and 


Uncle  George  and  the  Englishman       183 

flowers  pleased  him  very  much,  but  hilarious 
pleasure-seekers,  and  the  indifferent  negroes 
riled  him.  The  pretty,  elegantly-dressed 
women,  with  their  merry  chatter,  did  not 
appeal  to  him. 

"  Bugs !  Bugs ! !  Nothing  but  bugs !  " 
was  his  cry. 

"  I  never  seed  sich  a  man  since  I  been 
born,"  said  Uncle  George,  the  head  porter. 
"  We  ain't  got  nuthin'  dat  suits  him.  When- 
ever I  see  him  comin',  wid  dat  baskit  on  his 
arm,  an'  dat  single-bar'l  glass  on  his  eye,  den 
I  knows  some  trouble's  on  de  way." 

Ferrier,  much  to  the  joy  of  his  fellow 
lodgers,  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  woods, 
hunting  insects.  Every  sunny  day  he  would 
leave  bright  and  early  and  stay  away  until 
late  in  the  afternoon,  sometimes  tramping  ten 
or  twelve  miles  and  back  between  suns.  Na- 
tives, as  well  as  visitors,  soon  became  in- 
terested in  him  and  his  work,  but  no  one 
ever  sought  him  out  to  interrogate  him,  or 
to  converse  with  him.  His  demeanor  was 
forbidding,  yet  he  never  intentionally  af- 
fronted any  one.     To  the  few  he  made  up  to 


184  Tar  Heel  Tales 

he  was  very  affable  and  likable.  He  meant 
well,  but  his  neighbors  could  not  become 
accustomed  to  his  brusqueness. 

The  Toxaway  country  abounds  in  deer, 
grouse  and  trout.  During  the  busy  season, 
sportsmen  bring  in  many  trophies  of  the 
hunt.  Ferrler,  If  one  were  to  judge  from  his 
conversation,  was  an  authority  on  game.  In 
talking  of  the  catch  or  kill  of  the  North  Caro- 
lina fishermen  or  hunters,  he  would  speak 
slightingly,  and  this,  more  than  any  other 
thing,  made  him  unpopular. 

"  I  'clar'  'fo'  Gawd,"  said  Uncle  George, 
one  day,  *'  ain't  we  got  nuthin'  as  good  as 
whut  dey's  got  In  Englan'  ?  " 

Robert  Brusard,  son  of  the  Captain, 
caught  a  very  large  trout,  brought  it  home 
and  exhibited  It  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and 
one  after  another  declared  that  It  was  the 
finest  fish  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  seen,  but 
when  Ferrler  saw  It  he  shook  his  head,  and 
said:  *'  Yes,  yes,  that  Is  a  big  trout,  but  we 
have  larger  ones  than  that  In  England." 
When  a  grouse  was  shown  he  made  about  the 
same  comparison,  and  a  deer,  always  giving 


Uncle  George  and  the  Englishman       185 

his  country  the  best  of  It.  This  kept  up  until 
every  American  in  the  community  was  mad 
at  Ferrier. 

*'  Ef  I  live,  so  hep  me  Gawd,  I'll  git  some- 
fin'  bigger  dan  whut  dey's  gut  in  Englan'," 
declared  Uncle  George,  the  boss  of  all  the 
darkies.  "  I  sho'  is  gwine  to  git  even  wid 
dat  man. 

"  When  Marse  Robert  go  out  here  an' 
ketch  de  bigges'  trout  dat  de  oles'  men  in 
dese  parts  ever  seed,  den  come  *long  dat  man, 
wid  his  single-bar'l  eyeglass,  slap  It  up  to  his 
face,  an'  'low:  *  Yes,  dat's  er  putty  big  fish, 
but  dey's  gut  bigger  ones  dan  dat  in  Englan'.' 
I  don't  say  much,  fur  I  ain't  never  been  dare. 
But  dat  ain't  all.  No,  sir,  he  don't  stop 
den,  but  des  keep  on  an'  on. 

"  De  yudder  day,  when  Marse  Jim  killed 
dat  grouse  —  I  believe  dat's  whut  dey  call 
It,  but  it  look  des  lak  a  sho'  nuff  ole  speckle 
hen  to  me  —  an'  fetch  it  here,  all  whut  see  It, 
'cepin'  dat  Englishman,  say  dat  It's  de  big- 
ges' bird  uv  de  kind  in  all  de  Ian',  I  won- 
dered whut  he  gwine  to  say.  Yes,  sir,  I  des 
wonder  whut  he  gwine  to  say.     But  I  ain't 


1 86  Tar  Heel  Tales 

hafter  wonder  long,  fur  he  come  'long,  step- 
pin'  two  yards  at  a  time,  an'  stop,  an'  put 
on  dat  single-bar'l  eyeglass,  an'  look  down 
at  de  grouse.  I  helt  my  breaf  until  he  say: 
'  Yes,  yes,  dat's  er  putty  big  bird,  but  dey's 
gut  bigger  grouse  dan  dat  in  Englan'.' 

"  Dat  wuz  too  much.  I  des  gut  right  sick 
when  he  say  it.  An'  no  longer  dan  de  day 
befo',  right  dare  in  de  back  yard,  he  say  dat 
de  deer  whut  de  gemmun  frum  Atlanty  kilt 
wuz  er  big  one,  but  not  as  big  as  de  ones  dey 
have  in  Englan'.'* 

One  afternoon,  not  long  after  the  deer  in- 
cident, the  old  negro  was  fishing  in  Horse- 
shoe River,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
when  he  saw  another  fisherman  catch  a  mud 
turtle,  or  cooter,  as  the  natives  called  it.  At 
the  sight  of  the  wriggling  thing,  a  happy 
thought  came  to  Uncle  George. 

"  I  sho'  will  trade  fur  dat  cooter  an'  git 
even  wid  de  Englishman,'*  said  he.  *'  Yes, 
sir;  dat's  des  whut  I'll  do.*' 

Going  up  to  the  man  who  had  landed  the 
turtle,  George  asked:  "Say,  boss,  how'll 
you  swap  dat  tuckle  fur  some  fish?  " 


Uncle  George  and  the  Englishman      187 


a  T'l 


I'll  trade  fair,"  said  the  mountaineer. 

"  .Well,  I'm  yo'  man,  ef  you  will,  fur  I 
wants  dat  cooter,"  declared  the  darkey. 

*'  I'll  give  you  two  trouts  fur  him?  " 

The  exchange  was  made  and  George  set 
out  for  home.  No  one  knew  what  the  negro 
was  up  to  until  he  let  a  few  of  his  friends, 
white  and  black,  onto  his  game. 

**  Marse  Jim,  I  wants  you  an'  Marse  Rob- 
ert to  come  roun'  to  de  back  yard  des  arter 
dinner,"  said  George  to  Mr.  Brusard. 

"What  are  you  up  to,  George?"  asked 
the  white  man. 

"  Des  a  little  fun,  sir.  Be  sho'  an'  be 
dere !  " 

George  went  through  the  house,  telling 
those  whom  he  liked  that  he  would  expect 
them  at  the  rear  of  the  building  that  evening 
at  half-past  nine. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  little  yard 
was  full  of  curious  persons,  anxious  to 
know  what  sort  of  trick  the  ex-slave  had 
on  hand. 

"  George,  what  is  this  you  are  giving  us?  " 
asked  young  Brusard. 


1 88  Tar  Heel  Tales 

"  Ax  me  no  questions,  an'  I'll  tell  you  no 
lies,"  answered  the  negro. 

"  Marse  Jim,  ef  you  all  des  wait  here  till 
de  Englishman  go  to  his  room  den  you'll 
see  some  fun." 

"  What  have  you  done  to  Mr.  Ferrier's 
room?  " 

"  Des  evenin',  while  I  wuz  down  on 
Horseshoe,  fishin',  I  seed  a  mountain  man 
ketch  er  tuckle,  one  of  dese  here  cooters 
whut  bites  an'  holds  on  till  it  thunders,  an' 
I  swapped  fur  it,  brought  it  home  an'  tuck 
It  up  dere  an'  put  It  In  dat  man's  bed.  Yes, 
sir;  I  slip  up  dere  right  easy  lak,  pull  de  kiver 
down  an'  slip  him  in  beween  de  sheets,  so  dat 
when  Mr.  Ferrier  hop  in  he'll  hop  out  ergln. 
All  you  gut  to  do  Is  to  wait." 

A  little  snicker  passed  over  the  crowd. 

Soon  after  nine  the  bug-hunter  climbed  the 
stairs  from  the  office  to  his  room,  unlocked 
the  door,  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  candle 
on  the  table  by  the  bed. 

"Now  listen,"  whispered  Uncle  George; 
"  he's  up  dere.     Did  you  hear  him  scratch  de 


Uncle  George  and  the  Englishman      189 

match.  He  won't  be  dere  long  'fo'  he  jumps 
in  de  bed,  an'  den  trouble'll  begin. 

*'  Look,  look;  see  de  light  go  out  I 

*'  Now  listen,  an'  you'll  hear  him  bounce 
In! 

*' Listen;  hear  de  bed  a  screachin' I 

''  He's  in." 

"  Help  !  Ho  !  "  came  from  the  window 
above. 

"  Listen!  "  cried  the  darkey. 

The  crowd  below  could  hear  everything. 
Ferrler  sprung  out  of  the  bed,  fell  over  a 
chair,  rose  to  his  feet,  scrambled  out  the  door, 
and  came  flying  down  the  back  way,  yelling 
every  jump. 

^'Help!     A  dog!     A  mad  cat!" 

The  onlookers  stood  perfectly  still,  while 
Ferrier  rushed  into  the  yard,  with  the  turtle 
hanging  on  to  his  night  shirt. 

**Take  it  off!  Kill  It!"  shouted  the 
Englishman. 

"  Des  let  him  run,"  whispered  Uncle 
George. 

Round   and  round  the   frightened  fellow 


190  Tar  Heel  Tales 

went,  with  the  turtle  swinging  against  his 
legs,  now  and  then  scratching  them. 

*'  Knock  this  thing  off,  George,"  he  cried 
to  the  old  negro. 

*'  Ef  you'll  stop  so  I  kin  hit  It  widout  hit- 
tin'  you,"  was  the  reply. 

Picking  up  a  broom  handle,  George  cracked 
the  creature  on  the  head  and  broke  it  loose. 

**  What  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  is  that, 
George?"  asked  the  Briton,  as  he  turned 
and  gazed  upon  the  dying  turtle. 

"  Dat,  sir,  is  a  'Merlkin  bed  bug.  Is  you 
gut  any  in  Englan'  dat  kin  beat  it?  " 


SHE  DIDN'T  LIKE  MY  YELLOW 

SHOES 

HUMAN  nature  is  the  same  the  world 
over,  and  the  train  is  the  best  place  to 
get  the  cream  of  It. 

The  other  day,  while  on  my  way  from 
Kansas  City  to  St.  Louis,  in  a  day  coach,  I 
lost  my  seat  to  two  ladies,  who,  disregarding 
my  suit  case  and  coat,  had  taken  possession 
while  I  was  in  the  rear  getting  a  drink  of 
water.  This  I  did  not  mind,  as  there  were 
plenty  of  seats  vacant.  Soon  after  the  new- 
comers had  arrived  they  began  to  buy  and 
eat  fruit,  using  a  time-table  which  I  had  se- 
cured and  marked  for  my  convenience,  as  a 
receptacle  for  the  peelings  and  seed.  This 
annoyed  me  just  a  little,  for  I  could  not  get 
a  fresh  one  until  I  reached  the  end  of  my 
journey,  but  I  said  nothing. 

An  hour  later,  after  I  had  taken  a  short 
nap  and  lost  the  run  of  the  stations,  I  de- 

191 


192  Tar  Heel  Talcs 

sired  to  consult  my  schedule.  Looking  over 
the  way,  I  found  that  the  younger  woman  had 
disappeared,  leaving  her  companion,  an  old 
lady  dressed  in  heavy  black,  wearing  on  her 
head  an  antiquated  split  bonnet.  Thinking 
of  nothing  but  my  time-table,  I  got  up  and 
went  to  where  the  aged  traveler  sat  and, 
without  much  ado,  reached  down  and  picked 
It  up.  My  intention  was  to  steal  away  un- 
observed, so  that  the  woman  would  not  feel 
called  upon  to  offer  an  apology  for  taking 
my  seat,  but  I  was  foiled.  As  I  lifted  the 
book  a  cold,  bony,  clammy  hand  shot  from  be- 
neath a  black  sleeve  and  fastened  my  wrist 
with  a  vice-like  grip.  The  turn  was  so  sud- 
den and  so  unexpected  that  I  lost  my  equi- 
librium. 

"  My  time-table,  good  lady,  Is  all  that  I 
want,"  said  I,  as  meekly  as  possible. 

*'  It's  mine,"  was  the  sharp  reply,  the  hand 
closing  on  my  wrist. 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  but  I  have 
carried  that  folder  for  two  days." 

*'  You  hain't  no  sich  thing,  fur  I  got  it 
this  mornin'." 


She  Didn't  Like  My  Yellow  Shoes      193 

"  I  do  not  like  to  dispute  your  word, 
madam,  but  I  left  this  book  on  this  seat  and 
it  was  here  when  you  came  this  morning." 

"  You're  just  a  tellin'  what  ain't  so,  an' 
I  don't  lak  to  be  meddled  wid  by  no  man 
wid  yaller  shoes." 

"  O,  I  see  it  Is  my  shoes  you  do  not  like !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  lak  you  ner  none  lak  you. 
What  you  got  on  that  long  thing  fur?  " 

I  wore  a  long  automobile  coat,  or  duster, 
to  protect  my  clothes,  and  the  old  lady  did 
not  like  that.  Seeing  what  a  tempest  I  had 
stirred,  I  decided  to  fight  it  out  just  for  fun. 

"  Madam,  you  wouldn't  mind  my  taking 
my  suit  case  out  of  here  so  that  you  could 
have  more  room  for  your  feet?  " 

"  No.  It  hain't  got  no  bizness  in  here 
nohow." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  I  know  It  hasn't,"  said 
I. 

"  I  ain't  none  of  your  dear,  an'  don't  you 
call  me  that  nuther." 

"  Pardon  me,  sister,  but  I  meant  to  be 
pleasant  to  you." 

*'  I  wouldn't  choose  any  of  your  pleasant- 


194  Tar  Heel  Tales 

ness.  It's  just  lak  you  drummer  chaps. 
I've  heard  of  your  doin's  before." 

She  thought  I  was  a  knight  of  the  grip, 
and  feared  that  I  would  flirt  with  her.  That 
was  interesting. 

"  My  coat  —  that's  it  hanging  there  above 
your  head,  where  I  put  it  before  you  took 
my  seat." 

"  'Tain't  your  seat  I  How  come  it  your 
seat?" 

"  I  am  not  claiming  it,  mother,  but  just 
explaining  how  my  coat  got  there  —  that's 
all.  No,  it  is  your  seat  by  the  right  of  pos- 
session, and  I  should  not  ask  you  to  move  if 
I  had  to  hang  on  the  bell  cord." 

"  You  make  out  lak  you're  powerful  per- 
lite,  but  the  way  you  drummers  do  nobudy 
—  not  even  an  ole  woman  lak  me  —  kin  tell 
what  you're  up  to." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  but  I  am 
not  a  drummer.  I  live  one  thousand  miles 
from  here,  and  am  on  my  way  home  from 
the  Democratic  convention,  at  Denver,  to  see 
my  wife  and  little  girl.  I  have  tried  to  be- 
have myself  and  it  grieves  me  to  think  that 


She  Didn't  Like  My  Yellow  Shoes      195 

I  offended  you,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
say  that  I  did  It  intentionally.  I  entered  this 
train  early  this  morning,  at  Kansas  City,  and 
picked  this  seat,  where  the  sun  would  not 
shine  on  me,  and  occupied  it.  Later,  you  and 
your  friend  came  in  and  captured  it  while 
I  drank  at  the  water  cooler,  and  I  had  origi- 
nally selected  one  that  your  good  taste  made 
you  prefer  to  the  many  empty  ones  that  were 
here  when  you  came.  That  is  the  whole 
story.  I  wanted  to  see  my  time-table,  and 
came  for  it.  You  took  hold  of  my  arm  — 
something  I  never  permit  any  woman  but  my 
wife  to  do  — " 

"  You  know  that  ain't  so,"  declared  the 
disputant  hotly.     "  I  never  held  your  arm." 

"  Look  now,  my  dear,  and  see  if  you  have 
not  my  wrist." 

That  was  the  blow  that  killed  mother,  for 
she  still  held  my  wrist,  although  I  had 
dropped  the  folder.  Here  a  bit  of  color 
mounted  the  pale,  wrinkled  cheeks. 

*'  I  love  to  see  a  pretty  woman  blush," 
said  I,  smiling  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  shet  your  mouth.     I  ain't  blushin'  I 


196  Tar  Heel  Tales 

I  wish  my  brother  was  here.  Td  make  him 
crack  your  head.'^ 

"  Your  brother  —  where  is  your  husband 
or  your  son?  " 

*'  I  ain't  got  none,  as  I  have  never  been 
married." 

*' O,  I  see;  you  are  still  enjoying  single 
bliss  —  a  charming  old  maid?  " 

"  It's  none  of  your  bizness  what  I  am. 
You've  got  nuthin'  to  do  with  me." 

Passengers  several  seats  back  and  front 
were  listening  to  the  controversy,  which  had 
been  fast  and  sharp,  and  enjoying  it. 

"  Well,  good  soul,  I  will  leave  you  if  you 
will  give  me  my  time-table." 

"  It's  none  of  yourn,  but  take  it  an'  go." 

"  Not  until  you  are  convinced  that  it  is 


mme. 


"  It's  mine,  but  you  kin  have  It." 

"Just  one  word?  Did  you  write  your 
name  on  your  book?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  look  inside  there  you 
will  find  my  name.  If  you  do  not  I  shall 
apologize  and  give  you  a  basket  of  candy." 


She  Didn't  Like  My  Yellow  SHoes      197 

"  I  don't  want  your  candy." 

"  I  know  you  don't,  but  you  will  look  for 
my  name?  " 

As  she  opened  the  book  and  revealed  the 
name,  I  said:  "That's  my  handwriting,  as 
you  will  see  by  comparing  it  with  this  on  my 
ticket." 

"  Now  look  on  page  forty  and  see  if  the 
table  from  Kansas  City  to  St.  Louis  is  not 
marked." 

She  was  convinced  that  I  owned  the  book. 

"  Now,  madam,  if  you  will  look  over  there 
on  top  of  your  telescope  you  will  find  your 
table,  right  where  you  put  it  when  you  came 
In.  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  and 
as  we  journey  through  this  vale  of  tears  if 
I  can  ever  do  you  a  turn  you  may  call  on 
me.     I  like  your  spunk." 

"  You  go  on  about  your  bizness  an'  let  me 
erlone  an'  I'll  'tend  to  mine.  If  you'll  throw 
them  yaller  shoes  in  the  river  an'  give  that 
jimswinger  to  some  nigger  you'll  look  putty 
decent." 

When  the  old  damsel  got  up  to  leave  the 
train,   I  hurried  up,   like   a  young   gallant, 


198  Tar  Heel  Tales 

grabbed  up  her  luggage  and  carried  it  to 
the  door  before  she  had  time  to  protest. 

"  Good-bye,  sweetheart,"  I  shouted,  as  the 
train  pulled  out,  and  in  reply  she  yelled: 
*'  Shet  your  mouth,  smarty!  " 


AFRAID  OF  THE  FROWZY  BLONDE 

C4TT7HY  don't  you  slide  in  by  the 
VV  frowzy  blonde?"  asked  Sanford 
of  Roark,  who  backed  himself  up  against  a 
seat  in  the  first-class  car,  as  the  train  came 
down  the  mountain. 

"  She's  like  a  snow  peak,"  said  Roark. 
"  I  passed  and  looked  longingly,  but  you 
should  have  seen  the  icy  stare  she  handed 
me. 

"  Yes,  but  when  the  train  is  crowded,  as 
it  is,  she  is  not  entitled  to  a  whole  seat,"  re- 
sponded Sanford.  *'  You  would  be  justified 
in  scrouging  in." 

"  It  is  no  question  of  my  right,"  said 
Roark,  "  but  those  frigid  eyes  took  the  nerve 
out  of  me.  I  think  she's  been  in  cold  stor- 
age. 

"  In  beating  about  the  country,  old  fellow, 
I  have  become  somewhat  of  a  physiognomist. 

199 


200  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  woman  or  man  who  holds  an  entire  seat, 
In  a  crowded  car,  does  so  by  force.  Take 
the  blonde  there,  why,  you  could  not  any 
more  approach  her  than  you  could  a  bull  dog 
nibbling  on  a  bone. 

*'  If  I  am  one  of  many  who  occupy  seats 
In  a  car  and  a  stranger  asks  me  If  I  will  share 
with  him  I  feel  complimented.  The  person 
asked  to  share  a  seat  with  me,  by  me,  should 
feel  honored,  for  I  do  not  sit  down  by  any 
old  scrub  If  I  can  avoid  it,  and  I  usually  can. 
One  day,  not  long  ago,  I  saw  a  little  girl  on 
a  car,  unattended,  go  to  a  gentleman  whom 
she  had  never  seen  before  and  take  a  seat 
by  him.  I  did  not  know  the  man,  but  had 
admired  his  kind,  gentle  face,  and  the  child 
had  picked  him  as  a  safe  companion. 

"  What  a  handsome  compliment !  I 
would  give  my  fortune  for  that  man's  coun- 
tenance. Mark  Twain  Is  credited  w^Ith  say- 
ing that,  in  passing,  a  dog  will  lick  the  hand 
of  an  honest  man,  but  will  growl  at  a 
scoundrel. 

"  Instinct  tells  us. 

*'  Of  course,   I   should  like  to  have  that 


Afraid  of  the  Frowzy  Blonde      201 

seat  —  any  seat  —  but  the  young  woman  does 
not  want  to  share  it.     I  shall  stand." 

The  Shoofly  was  full  to  overflowing  that 
day,  but  the  blonde,  with  the  wealth  of  hair, 
such  as  It  was,  and  the  drowsy  look,  traveled 
unmolested.  Somewhere,  while  crossing  the 
foothills,  she  lifted  her  feet  to  the  seat,  let 
her  head  down  upon  the  aisle-arm,  and  slept. 
The  engine  blew^  the  wheels  squeaked,  and 
babies  cried,  but  she  knew  it  not;  she  was 
making  up  for  lost  time. 

"  She's  dead  to  the  world  now,"  said  San- 
ford  joyfully. 

*'  Yes,"  declared  Roark,  *'  and  If  she 
doesn't  mind  some  of  that  hair  will  drop  to 
the  floor.  I  have  been  watching  It  shake  as 
the  car  rocks  on." 

"  I  should  laugh  if  it  w^ould,"  declared 
Sanford. 

At  that  juncture  the  upper  end  of  a  long, 
yellow  curl  broke  from  Its  mooring,  fell  back 
and  began  to  fly  with  the  winds. 

"  Look  at  that,"  said  Roark. 

The  curl  whirled  around  a  time  or  two 
and  fell  to  the  floor. 


202  Tar  Heel  Tales 

The  train  moved  on,  crossing  rough  places 
in  the  road,  and  the  sleeping  head  went  up 
and  down.  A  second  curl  —  what  is  known 
as  a  Minerva  knot  —  began  to  loosen  in  the 
east  and  the  west. 

"  It's  a  landslide  this  time,'*  said  San- 
ford. 

"  It  looks  that  way,"   Roark  acquiesced. 

"  But  I  shall  not  complain,  no  matter  what 
comes." 

"  I  wish  that  lady  would  wake  up,"  said 
a  female  voice  across  the  aisle.  "  I  fear  her 
hair  will  lose  its  Grecian  effect.  But  I  will 
not  arouse  her;  it  might  make  her  mad." 

"  I  believe,  without  being  able  to  say  pos- 
itively, Charlie,  that  she  has  on  fluffy  ruffers," 
said  Roark,  laughing. 

"  I  have  studied  the  combination  and  I 
can't  quite  unlock  it,"  said  Sanford,  "  but 
I  think  she  has  what  they  call  a  transforma- 
tion pompadour,  with  coronet  braid,  zephyr 
curls,  all  of  which  is  covered  with  a  bunch 
of  real  Grecian  curls,  but  I  must  admit  that 
I  am  not  much  on  diagnosing  a  case  like 
this." 


Afraid  of  the  Frowzy  Blonde      203 

**  Make  way,  for  the  earth  Is  giving,"  said 
a  citizen  w^ho  had  just  arrived. 

A  section  of  hair,  shaped  like  a  shovel, 
such  as  the  farmers  use  for  bursting  out  mid- 
dles, or  to  go  with  a  sweep,  gave  way  and 
fell.  Inside  up. 

*'  That's  a  loller-perlooler,"  said  Roark. 
**  I  wonder  if  we  could  get  a  basket  to  put 
it  in?" 

The  rain  of  ornaments  had  started. 
Everybody  was  expectant.  Rats,  rolls,  puffs, 
curls  and  knots  were  loosening.  A  bundle 
of  wire,  something  akin  to  a  small  mouse 
trap,  came  with  the  hair. 

*'  Nope,  it's  the  Wire  Trust  In  disguise," 
declared  Roark. 

*'  Hold  your  tongue !  It's  a  summer  ho- 
tel," said  the  newcomer,  who  had  become 
thoroughly  Interested,  as  a  bit  of  hair,  done 
up  In  fine  silk,  fell  out.  "  Rats,  rat  traps  and 
mosquito  nets." 

The  lady  began  to  wiggle. 

*'  Carry  me  away,"  said  Roark. 

*'  It's  to  the  Land  of  Nod  for  me,"  ex- 
claimed Sanford, 


204  Tar  Heel  Tales 

**  The  baggage  room  for  me,"  said  the 
third  observer. 

Ten  more  rats,  six  rolls,  two  curls  and  a 
small  knot  were  the  last  to  go  down.  Piled 
on  the  floor,  in  the  shape  of  a  cone,  was  a 
peck  measure  full  of  all  sorts  of  hair  dress- 
ing. Yellow  prevailed,  but  there  was  any- 
thing from  a  drab  to  a  chemical  blonde. 

The  owner,  one  time  possessor,  waked  in 
the  course  of  time,  and,  on  feeling  curious 
about  the  head,  ran  her  hand  back  to  see  if 
she  had  lost  anything. 

"What  about  that?"  said  she  to  herself, 
realizing  the  extent  of  her  loss. 

"  Ghnarr!  "  snorted  Sanford,  snoring. 

*'Whee-oo!"  retorted  Roark,  who  had 
fallen  suddenly  asleep  in  a  seat,  just  cap- 
tured. 

"  I  am  so  thankful  that  everybody  is 
asleep,"  said  the  blonde,  aside.  "  What  a 
disgrace?  " 

"  Spoo-it !  "  snored  Sanford. 

Bit  by  bit,  piece  by  piece,  the  dislocated 
charms  were  picked  up  and  shoved  into  a 
traveling  bag,  and  the  young  woman  retired 


Afraid  of  the  Frowzy  Blonde      205 

to  the  toilet  room,  from  which  she  emerged 
an  hour  later,  looking  as  pert  and  as  grand 
as  ever,  just  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  hap- 
pened, every  rat,  or  curl,  in  its  place. 

Sanford,  Roark  and  their  new  friend,  the 
man  who  arrived  late,  disputed  over  recent 
baseball  scores. 


JAN  PIER  —  THE  SHOESHINE 

JAN  PIER,  the  little  Frenchman,  who 
came  here  several  months  ago  from  Nor- 
folk, is  going  back  to  the  Atlantic  coast, 
where  he  can  hear  the  roar  of  the  mighty 
waters  as  they  break  upon  the  American 
shores,  and  see  the  ships  as  they  come  and  go. 

One  morning,  about  ninety  days  ago,  as  I 
approached  the  square,  on  East  Trade,  I  be- 
held a  shock-headed  boy,  bowing  low  shining 
a  shoe.  Beneath  the  auburn  locks  shone  the 
skin  of  an  Anglo-Saxon. 

*' A  white  shoe-shine?"  said  I  to  Chris 
Karnazes,  the  fruit  dealer,  at  the  Central 
Hotel  corner. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Chris,  joyfully  and 
proudly. 

"  Me  brought  him  to  work  here." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

*'  Jan." 

It  was  a  beautiful  Sunday  —  fair,   cool 

206 


Jan  Pier  —  the  Shoeshine  207 

and  bracing,  and  everybody  save  Jan  Pier 
and  two  colored  associates  had  on  their  holi- 
day clothes.  Chris  wore  a  clean  shirt,  white 
collar  and  red  tie.  It  was  his  day  off,  but 
Jan,  the  newcomer,  the  boy  of  seventeen, 
with  thick  brown  hair,  and  big  brownish  eyes, 
bent  to  his  labors,  side  by  side  with  negro 
lads,  in  tattered  togs.  Not  a  word  did  the 
Frenchman  utter,  nor  a  time  lift  his  face, 
but  slaved  on  and  on,  hour  after  hour,  polish- 
ing shoes,  and  taking  in  nickels. 

"  Have  a  shine,"  said  Chris  to  me. 

I  mounted  the  stand.  Jan  Pier,  without 
looking  up,  ran  his  rag  across  my  shoe. 

"Where  are  you  from,  young  fellow?" 
I  asked. 

No  answer;  not  even  a  grunt. 

"  Where,  boy,  is  your  home?  '* 

Chris  spoke  to  him  in  Greek. 

"  France,"  said  Jan,  looking  up  Into  my 
eyes. 

"Where  did  he  come  from,  Chris?" 

"  Norfolk." 

That  was  the  first  time  I  saw  Jan  Pier. 

A  Frenchman  —  an  auburn-haired  French- 


2o8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

man  —  with  bright  eyes,  working  for  a 
Greek  and  with  an  A  fro- American  shoeblack! 

How  could  it  be? 

A  week  later,  Jan  Pier,  with  downcast 
look,  soiled  clothes,  and  tear-stained  cheeks, 
came  to  me,  silently  begging. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  I  asked. 

"  Me  no  work;  no  mon;  no  friends." 

I  pitied  Jan,  but  what  could  I  do.  The 
next  day  the  Greek  at  the  corner  gave  him 
work.  I  asked  a  negro  boy  why  Jan  left 
Chris,  and  he  answered:  "  Jan  knock  down, 
Chris  say." 

I  had  Jan  shine  my  shoes  every  time  they 
needed  it.  I  wrote  a  story  about  him,  and 
advertised  his  business,  hoping  that  it  might 
prosper.  But  Jan  flourished  not.  Once 
more  he  loafed  the  streets  penniless,  hungry, 
friendless,  and  far,  far  from  home  and  loved 
ones. 

"  Jan,  where  did  you  come  from?  " 

"  Norfolk." 

"Before  that?" 

"  Greece." 

"  Before  that,  even?*^ 


Jan  Pier  —  the  Shoeshlne  209 

"  France." 

"When  did  you  leave  France?" 

"  I  was  twelve  years  old." 

"  Did  you  run  away?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  did  you  go?  " 

"  To  Turkey." 

"  How  did  you  get  to  this  country?  " 

"  On  a  big  ship." 

"  Were  you  a  stowaway?  " 

"  I  helped  the  seamen." 

That  IS  the  story  of  Jan  Pier.  He  ran 
away  from  home,  when  a  small  boy,  went  to 
Turkey,  learned  Greek,  and  four  years  later 
shipped  for  America,  and  landed  at  Norfolk. 
In  the  course  of  a  short  time  he  drifted  to 
Charlotte,  where  he  has  been  very  unhappy, 
nobody  to  talk  with,  no  kind  friend  to  help 
him,  and  no  wise  hand  to  guide  him.  His 
energy,  courage,  and  stout  heart  and  body 
have  kept  him  going.  But,  now,  alas,  he  Is 
tired  of  the  struggle  among  strangers,  who 
do  not  understand  his  language,  and  will  go 
back  to  Norfolk,  and,  perhaps,  home.  A 
generous-hearted  Greek,  of  one  of  the  Greek 


2IO  Tar  Heel  Tales 

restaurants,  Is  getting  up  a  purse  to  defray 
his  railroad  fare  to  the  Virginia  city. 

Soon  the  little  outcast  will  say  "  adieu." 

When  Jan  came  to  me  the  second  time, 
with  the  woe-begone  look,  I  took  him  to 
Buster  Brown,  the  mailing  clerk,  and  recom- 
mended him  for  a  newsboy.  Buster  ran  his 
cruel  eye  over  him  and  asked,  in  Pilot  Moun- 
tain vernacular:  "Have  you  ever  har- 
pooned the  public  in  any  way?  " 

"  A  coup  sur,"  said  Jan. 

"  What's  that  youVe  handed  me?  "  asked 
Buster. 

"  '  Surely,'  he  means,"  said  I. 

"What  is  he?" 

"  French." 

"  Will  you  accept  mc  as  a  friend?  "  asked 
Buster,  proud  to  have  a  real  Frenchman  for 
an  employe. 

"  A  bras  ouverts,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Come  again,"  said  the  Pilot  Mountain 
man. 

"  He  says  *  with  open  arms  *  he  will  be 
your  friend." 

"  Good,  I  gad." 


Jan  Pier  —  the  Shoeshlne  211 

"  Coute  qu'Il  coute,"  declared  Jan,  smil- 
ing. 

*'  The  devil  abit,"  said  Dick  Allen,  who 
had  just  come  up,  "  and  what  is  it  he  says?  " 

*'  He  has  sworn  to  be  Buster's  friend  '  Let 
it  cost  what  It  may.'  " 

"  A  beau  jeu,  beau  retour  (one  good  turn 
deserves  another) ." 

Buster  and  Jan,  the  one  six-feet-five,  erect, 
weighing  260,  and  the  other,  four-feet-one, 
,  stocky,  and  stooped,  ambled  off  toward  the 
press  room. 

"  That  pile  of  old  papers,  under  the  table, 
will  be  your  bed,  Monsieur  Jan  Pier,"  said 
'  Buster.  "  Your  drawing  room  and  all. 
The  spigot  will  be  your  wash  basin,  and  any 
old  issue  of  The  Observer  or  Chronicle,  your 
towel.     May  you  prosper." 

Jan  Pier  stirred  the  enmity  of  the  native 
newsboys,  some  of  whom  hammered  him  the 
next  morning  when  out  of  sight  of  the  shop 
force.  Although  dejected  and  sad,  the 
Frenchman  sold  every  paper  he  took  out. 
Offering  one  to  a  traveling  man,  who  was 
climbing  in  a  hack  at  the  Selwyn,  he  imagined 


212  Tar  Heel  Tales 

that  his  offer  had  been  accepted,  and  -ran  to 
the  station,  four  blocks  away,  keeping  close 
in  the  wake  of  the  hustling  horse.  Seeing 
what  the  boy  had  done  the  salesman  said: 
"  I  will  take  two."     Jan  was  delighted. 

Unable  to  talk  and  tell  his  troubles,  sur- 
rounded by  hostile  youngsters,  and  contend- 
ing with  prospective  customers  made  life  one 
long,  desperate  fight  for  the  Frenchman. 
The  climax  came  one  night,  when  he  slum- 
bered in  his  corner  beneath  the  table  in  the 
press  room,  and  a  loafer,  a  town  lad,  slept 
above  him.  Somebody,  on  mischief  bent, 
turned  the  hose  on  the  shaver  on  the  top 
berth,  and  the  water  poured  down  on  Jan. 

That  was  the  straw  that  broke  the  camel's 
back  —  the  fighting  word  had  passed,  and 
the  pent-up  dander  of  the  bushy  red  head  was 
at  last  aroused.  As  the  intruding  chap  fell 
off  of  his  perch  Jan  nailed  him,  believing 
that  he  had  wet  him,  and  such  a  fight  as  was 
never  witnessed  In  The  Observer  building  be- 
fore followed. 

Round  and  round  the  diminutive  pugilists 
went  until  Jan  showed  signs  of  the  savage. 


Jan  Pier  —  the  Shoeshlne  213 

and  onlookers  interfered  to  prevent  murder. 
The  devil  in  Jan  was  in  tumult  and  he  fought 
like  a  Spartan. 

After  that  the  boys  —  the  paper  sellers  — 
left  Jan  alone. 

Now,  Jan  is  going  to  leave  us.  His 
friends  will  chip  in  and  help  him  on  the  way. 

He  will  be  missed  in  circles  where  his  au- 
burn hair  has  become  familiar.  Jan,  indus- 
trious, capable,  and  good-natured,  but  unfa- 
miliar with  the  ways  of  this  country,  deserves 
credit  for  being  as  good  as  he  is. 

Some  day  Jan  Pier  may  wander  back  again. 


WILLIAM  AND  APPENDICITIS 


^^ THERE'S  one  thing  dat  I  can't  under- 

JL/  Stan*,"  said  William  Gorrell,  the 
doorkeeper  at  the  Southern  Manufacturers* 
Club.  "  Yes,  sir,  an'  it's  puzzled  me  er 
whole  heap." 

"  What  is  that,  William?  "  I  inquired. 

"  How  come  you  don't  hear  'bout  no  nig- 
ger havin'  dese  new  f angle  diseases  —  dis 
here  bell-aker  an'  'penderseetis." 

"Bell-aker?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,  dis  misery  dat  comes  fum  eatin' 
corn.  How  come  no  nigger  don't  have  It? 
Dere  ain't  nobudy  whut  eats  more  corn  bread 
an'  mush  dan  er  sho'  'nuff  nigger.  Up  home 
—  dat's  in  Greensboro  —  de  niggers  say : 

" '  Down  de  country  de  nigger  say  he 
loves  mush, 

"  *  Up  de  country  de  nigger  say  for  God's 
sake  hush !  ' 

"  Haf   de  niggers  in   dis  country's  been 

214 


William. 


William  and  Appendicitis  215 

raised  on  mush,  an'  corn  dodger,  an'  I  ain't 
never  seed  one  die  wid  bell-aker." 

"  You  mean  pellagra?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whut  you  call  It." 

*'  I  dismiss  the  pellagra,  for  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  but  there's  nothing  strange 
about  the  negro  not  having  appendicitis,  Wil- 
liam," said  I.  "  You  know  what  the  vermi- 
form appendix  is,  don't  you?  " 

"  No,  sir,  'ceptin'  dat  It's  somefin'  dat  you 
gut  an'  don't  needj  an'  It  can't  stay  in  yer 
when  it  gets  hot." 

"  You  know  about  Darwin's  theory  of  evo- 
lution?" 

"  No,  sir,  to  tell  you  de  truf,  I  ain't  seed 
Mr.  Dargin  in  almos'  er  year." 

"  I  don't  mean  Jim  Dargin,  the  traveling 
man,  but  Dr.  Darwin,  the  great  scientist,  a 
learned  man  of  the  last  century  who  con- 
tended that  we  all  came  from  monkeys. 
You  have  heard  of  that  theory?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'se  heard  it  said  dat  we  come 
fum  monkeys,  but  I  ain't  bellevin'  everything 
dat  I  hears." 

William   cocked  one   eye  up   a  little  and 


2i6  Tar  Heel  Tales 

prepared  to  listen.  He  did  not  catch  on  to 
the  word  *'  evolution,"  but  when  I  said  that 
Mr.  Darwin  was  the  man  that  believed  that 
a  man  came  from  a  monkey  he  understood. 
He  had  heard  of  that  claim. 

"You  have  heard  that,  then,  William?" 
I  continued. 

"  Whut,  boss,  dat  er  man  come  fum  er 
monkey?  " 

"  Yes." 

**  Yes,  sir,  but  I  ain't  put  no  faith  in  it." 

"  Well,  I  do,  William;  I  believe  that  Dar- 
win was  right,  and  I  have  come  to  this  be- 
lief since  I  parted  with  my  appendix." 

"  Don't  tell  me,  boss !  " 

"  It  is  this  way  about  your  appendix,"  I 
declared,  "  the  man  who  is  fartherest  re- 
moved from  the  monkey  has  the  smallest 
appendix  and  is  most  liable  to  have  the  ap- 
pendicitis, and  the  closest,  has  the  largest. 
As  one  becomes  more  civilized  his  appendix 
decreases.  The  doctors,  on  making  the  in- 
cision in  my  abdomen,  found  that  I  had  a 
very  small  appendix,  so  small,  in  fact,  that 
it  became  stopped  and  Inflamed. 


William  and  Appendicitis  217 

"  I  should  say  that  If  your  friend,  Rastus 
Johnsing,  over  there,  were  opened  it  would 
be  discovered  that  his  vermiform  appendix 
is  as  large  as  my  arm  and  as  long  as  a  rolling 
pin.  Your  appendix,  or  that  of  any  ordi- 
nary, dark-hued  negro,  is  about  the  size  of 
a  common  guano  horn." 
^  ^    "  Humph !     My  Gawd !     How  come  ?  " 

"How  come?  Because  your  race  is  not 
more  than  200  years  from  the  monkey.  I 
,  would  not  be  surprised  if  your  great-great 
grandfather  did  not  run  wild  in  the  forests  of 
Africa,  living  off  of  bugs  and  other  insects. 
You  know,  as  I  sit  back  there  at  my  desk 
'  every  day  and  watch  you  climb  over  this  grill 
and  brush  off  the  dust,  I  feel  sorry  for  you. 
You  like  to  climb  —  so  does  anyone  not  far 
from  the  monkey.  In  the  course  of  2,000 
years  the  negro  will  begin  to  have  appendici- 
tis, long  after  the  white  people  lose  theirs." 

"  Hold  on,  boss !     How  long  did  you  say 
it  would  be?  " 

"  About  2,000  years,  I  should  say." 

"  Humph!     I'll  be  gone  den.     What  you 
say  makes  me   feel   good.     I   ain't  haf   as 


2i8  Tar  Heel  Tales 

much  Interested  In  dc  race  as  I  Is  In  William 
Gorrell,  an'  his  picklnlnnies.  Ef  mer  *pen- 
dlx  Is  as  big  as  er  guano  sack  it  ain't  nobudy's 
bizness  but  mine." 


END 


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